


Blood Moon Rising

by Lullabyes



Category: Blood+, Blood+ (Anime & Manga)
Genre: And just bizarre ones, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Habu Vipers, Jung would cry, Jungian nonsense, Multi, Okinawa, Okinawan mythology, Prophetic Dreams, Psychological Horror, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Romance, Slice of Life, Supernatural Elements, Surreal, and all hell is about to break loose, haji has a smartphone, original character villain - Freeform, saya has a google car, the Ryukyus, the year is 2037
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-05-04 12:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 166,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14593431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lullabyes/pseuds/Lullabyes
Summary: Saya isn't healing. She is haunted. Set thirty years after the series. Saya struggles to come to terms with a world devoid of Diva. Old ghosts must be laid to rest, and new threats defeated. Angst, smut, suspense, family drama, slice-of-life, supernatural elements, Okinawan mythology and Chiropteran genealogy. HajixSaya.





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> ...Why am I still in this fandom?
> 
> I have no clue, beyond the fact that this will always be the only series I feel the itch to write about. That, and the best cure for RL writer's block is playing in the sandbox of nostalgia with someone else's toys.
> 
> The premise of this fic is very mystical-fristical. A lot of Okinawan lore, Norse mythology, and horrific abuse of Jungian symbols. Beyond that, mostly just my crackpot theories about Chiropterans and their weirdass mating practices. A lot of slice-of-life and soapy drama and angst and conflict too, centered around Saya and her family, as well as her budding romance with Haji. As for an overarching plot - well, it's better I not give too much away at this point.
> 
> All locations in this fic, unless otherwise specified, are from the actual Okinawa, which I had the immense pleasure of visiting in 2014. Any errors and touristy stupidities are mine.
> 
> Please don't sue for the story title, which is also shared by an atrocious(ly fun) B-grade horror movie about zombies.
> 
> Rating: Hard R, for violence, squick and sex. Will post more specific CWs in chapters as they are posted.
> 
> No idea how much readership this piece will get - but it's gnawing at my brain, and I am determined to pen it down. Updates will be hella sporadic, given the dramafest that is RL.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. Reviews are delicious and will keep this crazy lady motivated! :)

 

**BLOOD MOON RISING**

_ACT I_

_STORYTIME_

_Graphics by the fantastic Lipsticksandmolotovs!_


	2. Storytime

* * *

" _I want a trouble-maker for a lover, blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame, who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate, who burns like fire on the rushing sea."_

―  _Rumi_

* * *

**_CW: Gore, mentions of rape, induced miscarriages, angst. (I know. I wasted no time.)_ **

* * *

Anyway.

Gird up your loins. Dust off those brainpans. Pour yourselves an appletini—or five.

It's storytime.

Many lifetimes ago— _my_  lifetimes, not yours—in a world not so different from this one, Chiropterans lived. And flew. And fought. And fucked. And frittered away their time, in ways not unlike your own.

Okay. Full disclosure: I speak facetiously.

I  _have_  to. You wouldn't enjoy storytime, unless the stories reminded you of  _you_. That's what you like, right? Figments of fantasy, but the meat of the tale must be human. It must whet your appetite in all the right ways, so it becomes  _your_  story, as much as anyone else's.

You can be the damsel. The knight in shining armor. You can even be the villain, if it blows your dress up.

Hey, I'm all for it. Blowing up dresses. Blowing bits and bobs. Whatever shows you a good time.

But I'll be honest. I'm flattering you by speaking this story in a human tongue. Except this isn't a story about human triumphs or frailties. It's a story of Chiropterans. And in the world of Chiropterans, you would be little more than an aperitif. Or maybe a toasty nightcap.

Pick your metaphor, and pray it doesn't poison you.

Anyway.

Many lifetimes ago: Chiropterans jived. Swived. Thrived. In those days, to be born a Chiropteran was not too different from being a godling, in some war-torn land you'd like to pretend is as distant from your reality as the stars.

The skies were alive with the beat of their wings. Their castles towered in the mountains like cathedrals of ivory. Gold were their turrets, and marble their halls. They even had daily baths of milk and honey, and baby-blood smoothies.

I know. Obnoxiously  _extra_  for these gluten-free, sustainable, thrift-shoppy times.

Many lifetimes ago, humans lived too. Not too different from humans today. Whiny. Weak. Warm, though—which is why Chiropterans kept them around. Always good to have a snack nearby.

In those days—these days?—humans outnumbered Chiropterans. A ratio of fifty-to-one. But Chiropterans were stronger. Not just a matter of physical potency. Chiropterans were tight-knit. Highly social. All that bullshit about vampires being eccentric loners holed up in haunted castles is just that:  _Bullshit_.

As a species, the Chiroptera have always been communal; an intimacy that is rooted in necessity as much as kinship. Between great houses, Queens shared resources. They shared armies. They shared blood.

Humans, conversely, were a selfish bunch. Always squabbling among themselves in feuds, or struck by epidemics. Or natural disasters. Or dancing plagues.

Pathetic little things.

 _What_? I said I'd be honest.

But humans could be useful. In addition to being tasty snacks, they made great worker ants and better cannon fodder. So Chiropterans tolerated their not-infrequent stupidities.

In the shadow of their castles, humans built temples. They swore fealty to Chiropterans as their deities. They paid them tributes of silver and gold. They revered them with songs, with stories, and, yes...

With human sacrifices.

I use the word  _sacrifice_  snidely. In those days—these days?—to be chosen as a sacrifice for a Chiropteran was the highest honor. Think banging Beyoncé. Or a picnic with Luke Skywalker. To be sacrificed, you see, was to be reborn as a Chevalier. To serve as the banneret and bed-warmer of the Chiropteran Queens.

Because that, my doves, is the crux of this tale.

The Queens.

Always, two Queens presided over each great Chiropteran house. A matched pair, yet complete opposites. One Queen was born of fire: red eyes, hot heart, the irresistible song of battle in her blood. A warrior. The other was born of ice: blue eyes, cold hands, a voice like a lungful of rime in winter. A priestess.

Both from the same womb, and held to the same esteem. But their duties were separate.

The Red Queen oversaw all matters related to conquest. She drafted strategies in war-rooms with her generals. She led her troops to battle. She welcomed victorious heroes with wreaths of blue roses—and executed turncoats with the bite of her fangs.

The Blue Queen's duties were more spiritual. Sequestered in her temple, she drank elixirs in toast to the Old Ones, tasting prophecies in her dreams. At the tip of dawn, she sang prayers for a bloody, bountiful harvest. At night, she held court for commoners and nobles alike, so she could read their future or utterly change its course.

Ah! What bliss those days were! Worshiping at the dainty feet of one Queen by daybreak, ensconced in the other's feral embrace by night...

What? Didn't I mention? I was a Chevalier in the Queens' court! Handpicked to serve the most illustrious Chiropteran house in the realm.

Where, you ask? Well, the location doesn't matter at this point. But what's a story without a setting? Especially a fairytale, meant to conjure up uniquely human fantasies of courtly love and historic pageantry? For that, a location is  _wesentlich_!  _El elemento necesario_!

So let's imagine this particular tale as taking place on the Faroe Islands.

Hm? Never heard of them?

 _Tsk_. Kids these days.

The Faroe, or Føroyar, is an archipelago at the icy margins between the Norwegian Sea and the North Atlantic. A realm of pale skies, dark cliffs and wintry tundra. No barren wasteland by any means, but nothing like the tropical paradise where you envisioned this tale would begin, either.

No need to be shy: I know what you were expecting. A familiar island at the fringes of Japan. A familiar Queen, her power wrapped in girlish delicacy to remind you—remind  _herself_ —of her ties to humanity.

So where is she, you ask? Don't worry; we'll get to her soon enough! She's with her family as we speak. With her Chevalier—the one man who wears brooding, secretive romance the way a wolf wears its fur. Smoothly unruffled in day-to-day life, but prickly and dangerous when disturbed.

Not that you  _should_  be thinking of him—disturbed, dressed or undressed! That man is spoken for! Try to put him from your mind. He and his mistress are  _fine_ , I promise you. They are even, dare I say it,  _happy_. As happy as they can be, given the odds against them.

It is more than most Queens or Chevaliers got, in the days of yore.

Speaking of days of yore, where was I?

Ah, yes! A young lad in Føroyar, strong of bones and flaxen of hair. It was my eighteenth year, and I was chosen from my village to serve in the Chiropteran Queens' court. As I've mentioned, this was the highest honor.

I was frightened, to be sure. But determined to prove my mettle. It was a matter of Wyrd.

To you, the word translates into fate or destiny. But Wyrd is more complex than that. It is not a state of being, but of  _becoming_. You can bend it, or change it to your will. But you cannot escape it.

As a boy, I had to courageously face whatever my Wyrd meted out to me. At the time, I figured I was meant to be a Chevalier to a Queen, the most celebrated of lives, and to fall in battle an eternity afterward, that most celebrated of deaths.

I did not.

My Wyrd would prove as wayward as the roads I walked upon.

I suppose it seems strange to you, that Chiropterans would so disparage humans, yet choose Chevaliers from amongst them. But as I mentioned, humans had their uses. Have you heard of the  _devshirme_  system, used in the 14th Century by the Ottoman Empire? The blood tax? No?

Well—go on and google it. I'll wait.

Now, I'm not saying the Chiropterans' conscription process was  _exactly_  the same. But there were key similarities. It arose as a means to forge ties with the human across the kingdom. A means for conquest, really, without the messy business of war.

Still. A blood tax is a blood tax. And it demands that life be paid with life.

Of the boys assembled, only a worthy handful were chosen. The rest— _rejects_ —were put to the sword.

Barbaric, you say? Not really. Had they lived, the boys would've led bleak lives of exile. They would've been driven from village to village, stoned and starved, and died a lonely death on some frozen spit of land. Only fitting, really.

In those days—these days?—only the strong survived.

The chosen boys were taken to the castle. There, under the tutelage of the greatest scholars and warriors, they were taught everything from the military arts of horsemanship, weaponry, strategy, politics, to the courtly arts of music, rhetoric, literature and dance. Oftentimes they served as squires for Chevaliers; other times as cup-bearers for Princess-Regents. Their schooling typically lasted for four winters. About the equivalent of an undergrad degree at a fancy private college.

Then came graduation day.  _The Red Glory_ , as it was known.

It fell on the month known as Gormánuður. Slaughter Month. Its equivalent today would be somewhere between October and November. The boys' parents were invited to the castle, to watch proudly as their sons were paraded on horseback through the square, bathed and perfumed and garbed in the costliest finery. There was music, and wine, and floor-shows, and floozies.

Not for the boys, mind you! They were kept unsoiled— _virginal_ —for the occasion. They were well-cared for and well-fed. But any hoochie coochie rum pum pum pum was out of the question. Their wedding-tackle—like everything else—was reserved purely for another's use.

Their Queen's.

Ah, I remember it well! It was a blue morning, the air shimmering with darts of cold sunlight. My cloak was made of dyed sheepskin, both caramel and gold. My woolen tunic was green, my gloves of the softest calfskin, my brown leather boots polished to a shine.

Forget Blahniks or Doc Martens. Those boots were  _pop, pop, poppin'—_

Anyway.

The lucky boys, myself included, dismounted at the gates of the great hall. We were ushered inside, to much fanfare and festivity. I still remember how brightly the torches shone. The place was filled with the chiming of goblets and the burble of voices. Music—lyre, langeleik, flute and drums accompanying the sweet contralto of a boy's voice—unfurled in the background.

At the end of the hall, on a raised dais of gold, heaped in quilts and fur-trimmed pillows, sat the two Queens.

 _Ah_! How to describe my first glimpse of them?

The Red Queen glowed like an ember of pure heat. Eyes and mouth painfully red, her whole body radiating firepower and fury. The Blue Queen, meanwhile, glittered like frost at the sea. Her face was without color and her eyes so blue, strangely hypnotic, strangely haunting.

A matched pair—each finishing a sentence the other began. Each as naked as her hatching day, and as lovely as a fever-dream.

It was there, on that dais, that the boys were summoned. Lambs to the slaughter, tender and trembling. Each one was gathered into the arms of his Queen. He was shown every exquisite attention. Given the first and most fantastic ride of his life. And then bitten at the height of it, drained to the edge of death before the Queen blessed him with her own blood.

Blessed him with eternal life.

 _Ewwww_ , you whine! The boys were fucked and fed on in front of everyone?!

Well, I  _did_  warn you. This isn't a tale for human sensibilities. A Chiropteran Queen thinks nothing of being nude, or bathing, or copulating, or sleeping, or performing any function in the presence of her court. We mean less to her than a pet canary or a footstool.

If you're repulsed beyond words, turn away. If you're intrigued, stick around.

The tale gets raunchier. And bloodier.

Now where was I? Oh right! One by one, each boy was sampled and slaughtered. As I recall, there were six of us altogether. Three for the Red Queen. Three for the Blue.

So it was every thirty years. So it had been for centuries before.

Yes, I know. This fairtytale is ass-backwards. As a rule, it's the  _princesses_  who are the virgin sacrifices. Pure of heart, pristine of blood. Yahta yahta. But a Queen is an entirely different creature. You serve  _her_ , not the other way around. And her power cannot be sullied by one little prick, any more than a teaspoon of sugar can turn tea into tequila.

She'd laugh at you for believing so. Or slit your throat. You'd deserve it, either way.

A variety of Chevaliers in a Queen's bed were no oddity, either. They merely sweetened her day, or spiced up her night. Blue Queens preferred silver-tongued bards, or clever-fingered minstrels. Men who could sweet-talk their way out of duels, out of debts, into drinks, or into pussy. Or, hell, talk  _through_  pussy, because that right there is the mark of a true connoisseur, and Queens don't suffer incompetence lightly.

Oh, the Blue Queen might let you live even if you displeased her, to slink away in shame; they're soft-hearted as a rule.

But the Red Queen? ¡ _Dios mío! О_   _мой_   _Бог_! The Red Queen would eat you alive, and spit out your bones. They are the pinnacle of wildness. Not just aggressive, but  _carnivorous_. They prefer their lovers the same: possessing a nature predisposed to famine and frost. Lean and hard and silent, with a spine that bends to nobody but them, and eyes that bite as coldly as their teeth.

I could tell you which Queen's Chevalier I was.

I could also tell you, by the end, it didn't matter.

* * *

 

The trouble didn't begin with us.

It came with the humans. Specifically, it came with six brothers.

Funny. The standard fairtytale number is three, isn't it? Bad things always come in threes.

But the number six holds its own dark symbolism. Six, lauded by Pythagoreans as the perfect number. Six, the Biblical mark of Man. Six, the number of bindings used to create Gleipnir—the enchanted leash that restrained the savage Fenrir Wolf.

For if he broke free, it would herald the  _Ragnarök_.

The end of the world.

Anyway.

Six brothers. Their names are lost to time and posterity. So I will call them Frick Frack Diddly Dack Patty Wack—

I'm  _joking_. Come back! The tale isn't over, and I'm enjoying the audience.

The six brothers—whose names I shall tactfully omit—were as cunning as they were cruel. They had grown weary of toiling beneath their Chiropteran masters. So they set into motion a scheme, whose ripples spread far and wide across the land. The ripples I still feel to this day.

Neither foolish nor brave enough to stage a revolt—for those periodically occurred, and were quashed by the Queens with the same indifference as stomping on an ant—the brother's chose to overthrow their sovereigns from the inside. To attack the belly of the beast, so to speak.

So they insinuated themselves into the court as Chevaliers.

Once there, the brothers were fast favorites. Each one as accomplished at wordplay as at swordplay. Light on his toes in a dance, yet honeyed of voice in a ballad. Also? Big in the breeches, with enough stamina to make even a Queen swoon with exhaustion in the bedroom.

I imagine each had plenty of opportunities, if he chose, to cut out his Queen's heart as she slumbered in his arms.

But simple assassination was not the brothers' aim. Nor was destroying an entire dynasty of immortals.

 _No_.

They planned to subjugate every Queen in the land. To replace them, as the new masters of humanity.

They began with sowing seeds of mistrust and obfuscation. Turning humans against Chiropterans. Chevaliers against Chevaliers. And finally, Queens against Queens.

Understand me: it did not happen overnight. In those days—these days?—vendettas could take a lifetime.

A lifetime to catch fire, and a lifetime to extinguish.

And catch fire they did—an internal rift that tore the once-proud house asunder. Revolts broke out across the land. Wars raged between humans, between Chiropterans. Cities were ravaged, their fields set ablaze. Entire castles were toppled to the ground. Newborn Queens were torn from cradles, to be decapitated or flung from cliffs. Princess-Regents were kidnapped and despoiled, mutilated and murdered. So many Chevaliers died, in ugly war-games and uglier executions.

As for the Queens?

The Red Queen succumbed to her Long Sleep. She became the brothers' prized weapon.

Each year, they ripped open her cocoon—an act as profane as tearing apart the pages of holy scripture. The brothers fed her blood, lighting a fuse to the powder-keg of wrath inside her. They set her loose on battlefields, a blind berserker who slaughtered everyone in her path.

And when the battle was won, and she collapsed once more into slumber, a red cherub in a halo of glistening gore, the brothers would haul her off to the next battlefield.

And the cycle would begin anew.

The Blue Queen was locked in a fortress at the edge of the sea, to be starved and slowly driven mad. The brothers did not kill her. They needed a broodmare, to give them a fresh pair of little Queens every second yuletide. Little Queens who were firmly under the brothers' thumbs, to play the puppets for an army of Chevaliers that obeyed the brothers' every command.

And so, biennially, on the cusp of spring, as the birds twittered in the trees and the fortress rang with screams, the Blue Queen was mounted and ridden, with as little care as a brigand might show to a door he were battering open.

And each winter, as the moon bit itself into a ghoulish white smile, she would purge a pair of Queens from her womb—lifeless in a bath of black blood.

The brothers, in a fit of fury, called for the best sage, and mage, and midwife in the land, to get to the bottom of the mystery.

Little did they know, they were playing right into the Blue Queen's hands.

It is true. She had been driven mad in her waking life. Weeping at everything and nothing, plucking roses from thin air and serenading the moon with prayers that sounded like song.

But in her dreams, she saw everything with brutal clarity. She saw her sister being used as an instrument of destruction. She saw kinsmen butchered in wars. She saw the six brothers amassing armies, hell-bent on creating a future of suffering, and blood, and naked greed.

So she did her best to forestall it.

With what meager herbs she grew in her rooftop garden, and with the help of a pitying chambermaid, she cobbled together potions that would stop the heart of any child in her womb. She lay out her plan with ruthless precision, a raft floating on a sea of little corpses, so she could sail out to those who would aid her cause.

Sages, and mages, and midwives, for whom she was still revered as a goddess. She came to them in dreams, blue-eyed and blood-soaked, to whisper her commands.

So the night the brothers summoned the sage, the mage, and the midwife to the fortress, she was well-prepared indeed.

From the mage, the Queen requested forbidden scrolls, alive with dark magic. From the sage, forbidden herbs, alive with dark power. From the midwife, secrets of the body, and all the inscrutable, powerful, magical ways life could be preserved for eons inside the darkness of her womb.

Because the Queen was pregnant again. Only this time, she did not plan to birth dead daughters.

_Keep them safe._

Those were her final words, a mother's desperate plea.

The sage, the mage, and the midwife did as they were bid.

I do not know more details of that night. But I  _do_  know the Queen did not survive beyond the sunrise. Or, I should say, her body did not. Her spirit was ferried to another place. If place is indeed the word for it—a way-station as small as a teardrop and as infinite as the cosmos at the border between life and death.

A place where souls with unfinished business wait, without rest, until said business ceases to be so.

It's a place with many names. Dante Alighieri famously called it  _Purgatory_. Buddhists sometimes refer to it as  _Naraka_. A folklorist, in this context, might term it simply as  _liminality_ , a crossroad between two states.

As for myself?

Well. In those days—these days?—such a place was called Niflheimr. An abode of twilight.

A place not of being, but  _becoming_.

It was from this place that the Blue Queen reached out to the Red Queen, the only way she could.

In her dreams.

Hm? You didn't know? The practice of two Queens conversing in the realm of dreams is age-old. Mastering it can be intuitive, for certain pairs of Queens. For others, it may take years of meditation and control over the senses. Rarer still, are those who share this unique experience only after one Queen is dead and gone.

I wish I knew what the two Queens said to each other. I wish I knew if they parted with smiles, or with tears.

I only know that a week later, the Blue Queen, her belly round as the harvest moon, was buried in her ancestral tomb. A week after that, the Red Queen was forced awake once again, to fight in a war.

Only this time, she attacked not her intended foes, but the six brothers.

 _That_ , I was there to witness. For centuries, the memory and my body will vibrate in echo of each other, to the song of red, red victory.

Watching the Red Queen fight had always been like watching a cyclone at sea. At once breathtaking and terrifying—a force of nature wrapped in sleepwalking skin. But this time …  _oh_! This time, she was wide awake. And the way she took her enemies was zesty, and bloodthirsty, like a spider devouring a twitching moth.

The oldest brother was a renowned archer. But what good is an archer without eyes? She plucked each eye out with the tip of her sword, juicy as cherries without stones. The rest of him, she slashed to pieces, slowly, making sure he felt every cut.

The second brother was the finest swordsman in the land. But what cares a Red Queen for such vainglorious titles? She slew him in combat—if combat be the word for an eyeblink  _swish-swoosh_  of her blade and messy  _thuck_  of his chopped-off head.

The remaining brothers suffered the same fate, one after the next. Slash, bash, crash.

The last brother, the youngest and cleverest, escaped. The Red Queen gave chase, across distant lands and numberless days. Each time, by accident, by design, she nearly overtook him. Each time, with cunning, with patience, he eluded. Her hunt spanned far and wide, a net trapping many slithering traitors in its hold.

She spared not a single one.

As for myself?

I was the Blue Queen's only living Chevalier. The Red Queen's only living groom. So I pledged to her my troth, my body, my life.

She accepted.

We ranged across continents, the two of us. I was wily, she was wise, and between us we had such strength that the engines of our bodies seemed powered by the steam of ten armies. I have but to blink to summon the shape of her in combat: a small woman, sharp of eye and pale of skin, her long plait of black hair looped intricately around her skull. Carrying two pearl-handled blades that could slice a hummingbird's wings in half with either hand. Her shadow was the last thing her foes saw before their arterial blood fanned red through the air.

But in those days—these days?—skill was not enough to settle the score.

To kill the last brother, we would need not only swords, but the Devil's own luck.

* * *

Days passed into months.

Leaves reddened and crumpled and fell into patterns in the fields, and our journey took on a pattern: awake at daybreak to the chirruping of birds, on the road by the cold blue morning hours to sniff out the brother's whereabouts, skirmishes against highway robbers or hired swords in the foggy evenings, steel striking off steel and blood splattering the swaying grass, resting at a shady grove or dripping barn by night, myself counting the hours until she was asleep so the haunters in her eyes were dispelled.

Sometimes, under the starry curve of an open field, she would speak to me, our bodies virtuously apart on different pallets, the fire crackling golden between us. I miss her conversations—full of sweet girlish uncertainties, and a seasoned warrior's stratagems. Sometimes she would ask me to sing to her, or play lively strains of the pan flute. Other times I cheered her up with chatter: bits of poetry and raunchy tales from court, and memories of her sister, as sprightly and wise and maddening in her way as the Red Queen was in hers.

She almost always wept on those nights, and always we would speak of our quest in fierce whispers, vows of vengeance and yearnings for closure coming together, as such things often do.

Never once did warmth pass between our bodies. Not even a kiss.

In her all-encompassing quest, she had killed every natural desire in her body. Her soul clutched at nothing but vengeance. It was her Wyrd to seek out the treacherous brother—or die trying. Mine was to follow her, but always at a distance.

Yet I grew to love her.

How could I not? Everything about her was perfect. Pure and ruthless and blazing as fire. I loved her focus, her ferocity. I loved her for the hells she carried inside her. I loved her for the way she wore death like perfume.

I loved her then.

I love her still.

One night—just the one—I nearly told her so. After a brutal battle, propped like bloodstained effigies atop our horses, we found safety in the grasslands of a wintry plateau. Both of us riding in silence, and bleeding; my Queen's clothes soaked as red as her eyes, her head lolling drunkenly against the horse's mane. Three days without sustenance, no flint or medicine between us, it was a quiet inevitability that she would die. It seemed the next gust of wind would knock her from her horse into the grass.

Yet she kept her seat, as if by some ungodly magic. Kept her wits, as she aimed with one shaky hand to a copse of towering oak trees.

In the bone-chilling wind, no other shelter for miles, it was wisest to huddle there than to risk frostbite. And so, after lashing the horses to a tree, I held her braced against my body, her spine curved along my chest. She shivered and murmured, caught in some hellish state between dreams and wakefulness. The coppery scent leeching from her skin held a tang of sickness; I feared she would survive the next sunrise.

Holding her close, whispering her name, I nearly told her then. A love-ballad turned deathbed confession.

But as the first rays of sunlight ribboned through the trees, we were roused at the approach of visitors. Visitors bearing no arms—but flasks of fresh blood, and jars of salve, and piles of fur.

The sage, the mage, and the midwife.

At great peril, they had sought the Red Queen out. They imparted to her the exact manner in which her sister had passed. The forbidden rites she had undertaken, to turn her death into a catalyst for reprisal. They showed her a vial, filled with liquid the color of wolfsbane. A poison, ancient and strong, that could kill even a Chiropteran.

The Red Queen, rested and healed, vowed to use it on the last brother.

It took her decades to find him. Countless Long Sleeps. Countless Awakenings. She roamed far and wide, hatred burning in her like a column of red flame. I was by her side, always. Silent as her shadow, and as devoted.

As our legend grew, renowned warriors joined the Red Queen in her mission. Together, we became a safeguard for her.

A Red Shield.

With the aid of arcane magicks, the mage conjured a network of lookouts for her. Eyes spread out across every city, every mountain and river. Eyes made of strands of power, with forked tongues and tails like snakes, entire swathes of them covering the roads, unseen and unheard, slithering together to form a world-serpent in the shape of Jörmungandr, the ouroboros biting its own tail.

These serpents were the Queen's sentries. Each with glowing blue eyes and tongues shaping the shadowy echo of a name. A sibiliation of tongue-tip and teeth, a parting of lips, a shivering exhale.

 _Saya_.

Ironic, that this was not the Red Queen's name, but her sister's. For everywhere she traveled, slaughtering her enemies, the snakes followed, whispering her sister's name as a reminder of all she'd lost.

People listened from behind their windows, and heard the two-syllable word that wafted after this strange, savage fighter.

They began calling her  _Saya_  too.

Centuries into her quest, the Red Queen heard rumors that the brother was on a tiny white-rimmed island in the blue seas of the Pacific, in a dark network of caverns within a green tangle of jungle, all of it part of an exotic archipelago known today as the Ryukyus.

There, on a stormy night, she made port with her comrades. Ready to end this quest, once and forever.

Anyway.

Long story short, we walked into a trap. The brother had laid an ambush for us on that island, all his forces cunningly concealed, all of them converging on us without mercy. It was a blurred typhoon of a battle, blood sprays and arrows, screams and raging rainfall, the zing of adrenaline overlaying the air like electricity.

When it was over, the brother, in a final duel with the Red Queen, was tossed half-crippled into the bowels of a cave. The vial—carrying the poison earmarked as his doom—clattered off to nowhere in the frenzy of the battle.

My own body was a mangled mess of stumps: wings torn off, one arm dangling in its sleeve, the other dropping off in a twist of muscle and bone.

But I was lucky to be alive, if not intact.

Which is more than I could say for my Queen.

I found her at the bottom of the cliffside. Flung away in a final sweep of the brother's claws, just as she had thrown him into the cave. The impact of her fall had shattered her, like a doll thrown from a window. The brother's henchmen, cruel of claw and fangs, took care of the rest. Bits and pieces of her were strewn everywhere, a blood-splatter of body-parts that filled me with dizzy despair to behold.

A Chevalier shouldn't have to gather the fragments of his Queen. He is meant to die at her side, with honor. Or, better still, give his own life to spare hers.

I failed at that.

I failed the Blue Queen—my birth-mother, my lover. I failed the Red Queen—my bride, my salvation.

Perhaps that is my Wyrd? To outlive those I love, not by virtue of victory, but failure.

The brother, at least, was no longer a threat. Our surviving allies and I swore to keep it that way. We sealed the mouth of the cave that held him, with powerful sorcery, and an assload of rocks besides. Imprisoned him, as his brothers had once imprisoned the Blue Queen, so he languished into death-like stasis from want of blood.

The clever mage tasked the serpents to keep watch over the cave.

_If the place is ever disturbed, warn the Queen's closest kin._

The Red Queen's remains were gathered into an urn. I journeyed home, to the ancestral tomb. There, I placed her alongside her sister.

In those days, it was custom for Queens to be mummified, as only the lowborn were left to rot. For the Red Queen, this was impossible. It grieved me beyond words, for what the maw of war had left uneaten of the woman who was once as beautiful as she was deadly.

But the Blue Queen, with the embalmer's secret herbs, had been preserved. She lay in her glass coffin, a perfect shell, for in the end that was all she was: a shell. They had eviscerated all organs except the cocoons in her belly. This, too, was custom—for who are we to break in death an embrace that was never broken in life?

_Keep them safe._

So she had begged the sage, the mage and the midwife. And they had granted her wish. A wish, not to cheat death, but to stop time. A wish, in its own way, for eternal life.

For her daughters had purposes, beyond life or death, that even I couldn't fathom.

But I did not think of her daughters. Not then.

Oftentimes we forget everything in our grief. We forget even ourselves, a madness born of pure desolation.

Alone, in that tomb, I wept. I wept for my Queens, for the world would never see their shape again—a fact I both knew yet couldn't believe. I wept for an entire dynasty ruined, an entire people erased. I wept for myself, the last of my kind, a reality of such loneliness that I did not think I could bear it.

But bear it I did.

It is my Wyrd, and I cannot escape it. I can only let it beat against me, as I did that night, walking out of the tomb and into the darkness, down roads with no end in sight. Down futures that may never happen, futures that would happen, and futures I will do everything in my power to stop from happening again.

It is into one such future that this particular tale begins.

Anyway.

Gird up your loins. Dust off those brainpans. Pour yourselves an appletini—or five.

It's storytime.


	3. Glass Half-Full (Part I)

_Yabuchi Island_

_Uruma, Okinawa Prefecture 904-2304_

_Japan_

Torchlight bounces off the mouth of the sea cave. Its ceiling and floor are studded with rocks that resemble misshapen tusks. The air is salty, alkaline, but with a strange undernote of  _aliveness_.

It lingers not as a statement but a suggestion: the sly whisper of something festering on the salt-fumes, the moisture and dust. Something as ancient and immovable as the cave itself.

It stirs with fascination when two men, waving flashlights, enter the cave.

Biding its time.

Waiting.

"You think the specimen could be hiding in here?" The security guard, nervously puffing a cigarette, picks his way through the dank island cave. "They've only just excavated this place."

"Which means it's got no cameras anywhere." His older companion's craggy face gleams with perspiration, like one of those ugly mushrooms that grow in dank cellars. "We have to check. The higher-ups said he might hide in the darkest available spot."

"What if he's starved to death in here?"

"Goody for us. Bad for the white coats."

"Or—or what if he's, like,  _furaagwa_? Crazy. What are we supposed to do then? Ask him nicely to come out?"

"No."

"What then?"

" _Ayena_ , Taka! Get in here and help me  _look_."

Grumbling, the older guard lumbers deeper into the cave. The younger man—Taka—hangs back, pissed off by the presumption that he must follow. Taking a final steadying drag on his cigarette, he flicks the butt away. Beads of sweat pop on his temples.

It is a suffocatingly humid night. The monsoon season is at its zenith. In the sky, the gibbous moon is colossal, a misshapen coin that plays over the sway of palm trees, the white surf of the sea. Yet the heat is bone-deep, like a sickness.

Swiping at his brow, Taka aims his flashlight around the cave.

Dust-motes swirl, broken by the glitter of dripping water. Everywhere, there are tunnels honeycombed through the cave. Some are too narrow to accommodate more than a human hand. Others are big enough for an entire person to fit through.

Idly, Taka wonders how complex the tunnels could be. What they might contain.

_Thirsty._

Jerking, Taka glances around. "You say something, Fiija?"

"No. Why?"

"N-Nothing. I thought I heard—" He shakes it off. "Forget it. Must be the wind."

"Wind. Farts. Your grandma's whistling pissflaps. I don't give a shit.  _Help me look_!"

"Okay.  _Okay_."

Flashlight aloft, Taka creeps deeper into the cave. His shoes scrape across the slippery surface of the floor. Unsteadily, he holds a free hand out for balance; it touches the cave wall and he nearly recoils. It feels like scraping the inside of someone's nostril, a bone-like hardness filmed in something slimy.

The darkness pulls at him with a strange unnatural thirst; it saps away the bright beam of his torch, and drinks up the trickle of moonlight falling from outside.

Uneasily, Taka squints. In the gloom, Fiija is a misshapen outline.

"Helluva night," the older man grumbles. "This was supposed to be an early shift. I'd already made plans with the wife and kids."

"Didn't the head honchos say the experiment was in its final stages? Maybe the specimen escaped 'cause they got careless?"

"What's it matter now? If we don't find him soon, we're  _all_  screwed."

Wind like a death-rattle rushes through the cave. The  _drip-drip-drip_  of water is eerily loud.

Scowling, Fiija pins his flashlight to different spots of the cave. The stark outline of the cavern tunnels suggests not a cozy hiding space for a burrowing animal, but a labyrinth for a monster.

"Plenty of places the bastard could be hiding," Fiija says. "He might've squirreled into one of the tunnels. See if you can find a stick or something. Maybe we can poke around the tunnels."

"Why not just secure the cave, and send out a search party in the daylight? Higher visibility then."

"The boss wants all hands on deck. We need to find that monster and return him to the lab. If he makes it off the island—"

"I know, I know. Deep shit. Screwed. Blah blah blah."

Grumbling, Taka squats to examine a gnarled stick on the ground. Maybe a leftover bit of driftwood; maybe a torn-off branch. Whatever—it'll do. He denudes it of sprigs and sand-clots, then rises to poke it into the nearest tunnel. One after the next, seeing how far the stick goes. Most of the passages are too narrow by far, or too short. Others are clogged by erosion and seepage, reminding him of ossified arteries.

"Maybe I should get that tranquilizer gun from the jeep?" he says, between jabs of the stick. "I mean—I doubt he's in here. But what if he is? Why take chances?"

"Aw. You scared, Taka-kun?" Fiija's mockery is only half-playful. "Want me to hold your hand?"

Taka rolls his eyes. "Look—we aren't fully trained to handle those  _things_. I'm not sure stumbling in the dark or poking sticks into random holes is the best solution."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. That strategy is shit in other places, too."

"Like where?"

"Like on my last date."

Both men dissolve into sniggers.

 _Thirsty_.

This time, they hear it perfectly. It is barely a susurration of sound, yet the diction is crystal-clear. It rises, not from the tunnels, but the layers of rock everywhere, a disquieting exhale of dust. As if the cave itself is breathing.

Both men freeze, the backs of their necks prickling.

"That was—" Taka begins.

"I heard it," says Fiija.

"Shit. Maybe—maybe we should call for back-up. If the specimen's really in here—"

"He might be. Or—"

"Or what?"

Fiija's face is bone-white in the torch-glow. "It might be something else."

"Something else? Like wha—!"

From Fiija's pocket, a chirruping noise. Hastily, he fishes out a beeper, glowing blue. A message flashes on the screen; he squints as he reads it.

"...Our specimen."

"What about him?" Taka asks.

"They've found him. Near the mangrove swamp."

"So it's All Clear?"

"That's what they say." Fiija's eyes meet Taka's uneasily. "There's just one problem."

"What?"

"He's dead."

" _Dead_?" Taka goggles. "How? I thought those things were like, superhuman!"

"Seems the transformation didn't take. The message says his vital organs shut down."

Taka puffs out a breath. " _Damn_. So this whole hunt was just—"

"A big fuckin' waste of time." Fiija stows the beeper away, swiping at his damp brow. "But that's twice as much reason to head back."

"Yeah. The main office needs to know that— _oh fuck_!"

Something prickly-cold drips down Taka's shirt-collar. Just a drop of water from one of the stalactites. But he is so keyed-up that the shock makes him stumble across the slimy floor, feet skidding and arms flapping. His torch clatters away, throwing crazy shadows across the walls.

Taka lands hard on hands and knees. When he straightens, his palms are dark with blood-smears, lightly salted with grit. More blood glistens on the cave floor.

"Ouch." Fiija shines his torch at him. "You okay?"

"I'll live." Taka straightens on jellyfish legs. "We should get out of here."

"Yeah. We'll call in the big guns. Have the cave sealed off. Then—"

"Fiija?"

"Yeah?"

Taka points with a trembling finger.

The torch has fallen a few feet off. Its light bounces off the deepest tunnels of the cavern. In the blazing white luminescence, the pockmarked holes resemble gaping mouths. By the largest hole, small shapes are littered everywhere.

Animal carcasses.

Birds, desiccated to feathery exoskeletons. Bats, torn open, bones gleaming through the fur. Sand crabs, their furry little bodies cracked apart like walnuts.

From inside the hole, a whispery, inhuman gasp rises, growing steadily louder and more spine-chilling.

Then something slithers out.

A hand.

A large bony hand, nearly human in proportions except the skin is overlaid with reptilian pebbling. The cuticles at the fingers are misshapen, almost clawlike, as dark as iron nails and sharp enough to puncture right into flesh and bone.

Transfixed, the two men stare.

The hand skitters out of the hole. It is attached to a wrist, wasted and nearly skeletal, its surface shimmering with a bristle of fur and more of those same iridescent pebbles. Inch by inch, the hand reaches out, toward the bloodstain left on the rocks.

Slowly, the hand scoops up the bloodied grit. Drags it back toward the hole. The motion is careful, almost tender. The hand disappears into the hole; there is a rattling sound, a liquid wheeze, the  _crunch_  of churned grit under molars.

Whatever is inside the tunnel, it is  _sucking_  on the bloodsplattered dirt. Noisy, relishing, the way a child sucks on a mouthful of gobstoppers.

Another noise makes itself heard over the sucking. A surreal sibilance that deepens into a moan.

 _Thirsty_.

"Fiija—" Taka scrambles backward, tugging his coworker's sleeve. "Fiija—we need to get out of here—"

Fiija doesn't hear him. He is staring with bulging eyes, his whole body paralyzed. "That—that's not one of our test subjects—"

" _Fuck that_! We need to—"

He can't finish. A long leathery body, bristling with electric awareness, slinks into view. In the torch glow, the men can see that it is the color of something left moldering at the bottom of a refrigerator. A mottled brown, smeared with sea-soil and pebbles. The teeth are the same, dirty tusks gnashing inside a beastly mouth, blood and spume lodged between the gaps.

A string of drool drips from the blackened lips; the blue eyes twinkle with a mindless thirst.

" _Shit! Shit_!"

" _Oh my fucking God_!"

The shrieks barely register over the  _roar_  that explodes through the cavern. It collides off the walls, shoots up both men's spines, echoes through the tunnels and the chambers of their skulls. Their rational minds urge them to flee; their primitive midbrains hold them rooted to the spot.

Prey confronted with an apex predator.

Then their vision is filled with nothing but the flash of blue eyes and massive teeth as the creature erupts from the tunnel, a chaos of twisted muscle and ripping claws that slash straight through their bodies.

The cave fills with screams, and the spray of fresh blood.

In the distance, Taka's stick, smeared in red, clatters away. For a moment, it lays there. Then it  _shivers_  down its length, flexing and curling. Its texture changes from splintered wood to black scales.

It is a snake, glossy and muscular, its eyes glowing blue.

For a moment, it regards the carnage in the cave. Then it blinks, a slow flicker of eyelids, before its tongue darts out.

Hissing, the snake slithers off into the night.

* * *

" _Saya_!"

The voice overlaps the bouncy refrain of golden oldies on the radio. There is a high-pitched blare of car horns. The onrushing headlights are two fireflies, then a blinding spotlight, speeding right at them.

Haji grabs the car wheel, yanking it sideways. Tires  _screech_. The car swerves, and the lights fade. The narrow road, defined by white stripes, glows in the moonlight.

"Saya? Are you all right?"

She can't answer. Her knuckles are bone-white where she grips the wheel.

"Saya—perhaps driving in manual was not the best idea. Should we pull over?"

"I—I wasn't—"

"What's the matter? Did you see something?"

Alertness cuts through the concern in her Chevalier's voice. She is conscious of the atmosphere changing with his body-language: the lax slump of a passenger reshaping into the straight lines of a protector.

"I-I'm okay." It's an effort to move her lips. "There was—something in the way."

"A rabbit?"

"No."

"What then?"

The road they are on is all steep edges, with grassy dunes on either side. The waxing moon plays across the tarmac. But that isn't what had startled her. It was a dark slither that leapt out into the headlights, eyes glowing blue, its body zigzagging from one side to the next before disappearing.

"It was a snake."

"A snake?"

"It was  _huge_. Didn't you see it?"

Haji hesitates. His pale blue gaze maps out the world, as if he might have overlooked something despite his unfailing Chiropteran senses.

Neutrally: "I did not see anything, Saya." He tries to catch her eyes, but they are locked ahead, both fevery and unfocused. "You're certain it was a snake?"

"Ye-es."

She isn't anymore, but she tries to reign in her spooked heartbeat. The wheel is damp in her clenched palms. Her right wrist, encased snugly in a pink cast, throbs with the quiet purr of the engine.

The car, a self-driving model, was a gift from Red Shield. It is small and sleek, nearly noiseless. Saya had never seen a self-driving car before. At least not in 2007. She wasn't sure she trusted it—but then, it was difficult to trust any facet of this flashy, freakish, newfangled future, and the way it tried to live your life for you.

Maybe that was why she'd tried driving the car herself.

Haji, poor thing, made a token attempt to dissuade her. After all, her wrist still wasn't healed from her prior—accident. Wouldn't she prefer to drive in automatic, or let him take the wheel?

In reply, Saya jutted her jaw stubbornly. And that was that.

It was a bad idea from the outset. (George had tried teaching her to drive, decades ago, in a yellow Volkswagen borrowed from an army pal. But she was a lackluster pupil, and directionally challenged besides.) The controls—who needed so many buttons?—went completely over her head. The glowing screen on the dashboard gave her the creeps. So did the automated GPS, the chiming notifs, the real-time maps, the robotic voices.

Too much sensory input. Too much information.

"Haji?"

"Yes?"

"Next time, let's travel the old-fashioned way." Leaping airborne from rooftop to rooftop, she means. "This is nice, and all. But I'm getting carsick."

Her Chevalier doesn't answer. But she senses, in the silence, that he is trying not to smile. The energy in the air softens, no longer dynamite but a drumbeat. Guitar-strings lilting in the space between them.

 _Don't go 'round tonight_  
_It's bound to take your life_  
_There's a bad moon on the rise..._

After a moment, he says quietly, "We could pull over."

Her heart does a funny flipflop. "Um—"

"There is a lay-by up ahead."

"It's fine. I mean—we're nearly there."

"Just until you feel better."

"Well... Okay."

They stop at a gravel shoulder, at the edge of the highway. Saya cuts the engine, and climbs out. The humid air is redolent with the Okinawan summer: seaside, mangroves, gasoline and the smoky aroma of burnt leaves. Beyond the curved guardrail, the light of the moon winks across the ocean.

On instinct, her eyes scan the empty road for the eerie sidewinder motion of the snake.

Nothing there.

_Maybe I was imagining things?_

It wouldn't be the first time; her unique brand of post-war jitters coming in past due. The smallest shock veers her central nervous system between fight-or-flight.

A cool touch on her shoulder. "Saya?"

She jerks, then relaxes. "Fine. I-I'm fine."

"Your hands are shaking."

"What?"

She stares down. Her hands are balled-up into trembling fists, nails biting into the palms. Muscle-memory. She has spent so many years with the heft of her sword in her hands. Its absence, the lightness of weight, can feel like a phantom limb some days.

But then, some days, the absence of the war feels much the same. Without warning, it can strike her, not as a sunburst, but as a bullet. Some days, it is hard to believe that the duty that once lent her life such a powerful superstructure is  _gone_.

And some days, it isn't the absence of war or duty that disorients, but the absence of their origin.

 _Diva_.

Lately, Saya finds that she isn't living her life, so much as salvaging what remains of it around the emptiness in the shape of her sister. For so long, she'd lived as her twin's self-appointed executioner. It had defined her like an aureole of light around a star, the form of her existence.

But now, without Diva, she is out of place, out of sorts.

Maybe even out of her mind.

_Stop it._

Exhaling, she unclenches her hands, and the rest of her body. Wind ruffles her long hair as she turns toward Haji.

"I'm fine," she repeats, and this time it is steady, soft-eyed. "I promise."

"Did you doze off back there?"

"I thought I saw a snake. It was probably a trick of light."

"As long as it was not a hallucination." Haji's look is gentle. "You have not been sleeping well of late."

"Better than I used to sleep. In the war, anyway. Nowadays I'm just... antsy."

"Perhaps more exercise would help."

She flushes at that. He says it matter-of-factly, a Chevalier concerned for his Queen. But there is a tiny spark of heat that accompanies the words.

From any angle, the situation is titillating. The full moon, the parked car, the public privacy.

Five months out of her Long Sleep, and this is their first moment alone— _truly_  alone. Three months of foggy amnesia and monosyllabic conversations, and he has not so much as dared to hold her hand. Four weeks since she's regained her memory, the two of them circling each other in a stilted courtship dance, and they've traded barely a dozen innocent kisses. Thirty years of waiting, and nearly a century of warfare, and they've held on to their distance, two fencing partners always fenced apart by duty and reserve.

Any mutual want between them had never been discussed, an unthinkable taboo in a crisis where such self-indulgence could not exist.

Yet the unshakable partnership between them was cultivated by the same war: it was there in the quiet conversations between eyes and bodies, the way they bandaged and bolstered each other, in the blood-pact that operated on a level beyond loyalty or lust.

And even then, to cross the line into the territory of lovers is a terrifying leap of faith—no matter how right it feels.

 _Lovers_.

What a generic noun to apply to herself and Haji. Two people who have traversed the entire wilderness of named emotions: agony, loneliness, affection, despair. Who have been everything to each other, from the mundane to the monstrous.

The latest change is as much a quandary as an inevitability, its truth mysterious as a puzzle piece, lacking sense until it fits into Saya's life with the quality that it is exactly as it should be.

Even if—as with all the pieces of her life—the transition isn't a smooth one.

Daring a glance at Haji, she finds him staring, not at her, but out to the sea. Wind stirs the dark curls over his forehead. His eyes are closed; he takes a deep scenting breath, and holds it.

Reconnaissance, she realizes. He is double-checking that whatever spooked her earlier wasn't a real threat.

She makes use of the distraction to study him. Amazing, how little he's changed. Still pale, self-possessed. Hair a handspan longer, untied. The clothes crisply formal, more expensive perhaps, yet still tasteful. The body underneath: still lean and long-boned and wide-shouldered, the razor-fine physical edge between athletic and ascetic. At this hour, he could be a night-stroller soaking in the lunar rays.

The only difference are the scars.

Pale as lace, spanning in irregular lines down the crest of his left brow, slicing the cheekbone and jawline, before trickling down his throat to vanish into the fabric of his clothes.

A leftover of the Option D bombing: his body split into pieces like the Met itself.

Over the years, Chiropteran physiology has healed the worst of the wounds. But like his clawed hand, those strange seams remain, as if the skin was imperfectly sewn together. A cruel map of his history—but also of everything he's overcome so they can be together.

 _Whatever 'together' means, when I'm crazy six-tenths of the time,_ she thinks—and tries to unthink it.

Sensing no danger, Haji exhales, and opens his eyes. When he turns to her, his expression is hard to read, his blue gaze flitting consideringly over her.

"If you are truly restless, Saya, we can fly the rest of the way. The villa is not far. The car can navigate there by itself."

"It's okay. I'm feeling better."

"Are you hungry? Kai packed a thermos of blood for you. And a bento-box."

"I'll eat once we're there."

 _There_.

At the private villa near Naminoue Beach: a pale tumble of limestone and deep-red pottery tiles done in the traditional  _minka_  fashion. She has visited the place before, with Kai and her nieces. Taking the grand tour. Poking and prying. Dropping off her things in cardboard boxes. All part of the Big Move out of Omoro and into her own space.

Well. Hers and Haji's,  _together_.

It should be exciting. It  _is_ —except the excitement is icing over a deeper layer of fear. She and Haji have faced so much, most of it traumatizing and violent. But never—domestic. Happy. Peaceful.

She can't bring herself to trust it, any more than she trusts being alive.

"Saya?" asks her mind-reader, "What's the matter?"

Caught-out, she flushes. "It's nothing. I'm just ... gathering wool."

"On my face?"

Every once in a while his humor trickles in, dry as white wine. She bites back a smile.

"It's a good face to gather wool on."

"It is not the face you are used to."

Always, he refers to his changed appearance obliquely. Aware of how it suffuses her with guilt, though he tells her often enough it wasn't her fault. He is simply happy to be alive, and with her, because that is how Haji is.

Always a glass half-full.

Smiling, she squeezes his hand with her good one. "I'll get used to it soon enough. Like... everything else I'm not used to."  _Hopefully_. "Tell me—are you nervous?"

"Of what?"

"This. Us. The fact that... there is an  _Us_." Shyly, she casts her gaze away from him, to the moon-dappled water. "With the war, there's so much we never talked about. Now it's ended, and I have this—giant jumble of thoughts. I'm afraid to even look at them."

The wind blows her hair around her face. Haji smooths it down, tangling his fingers in it. The touch makes her shiver as much as that slow dark timber of his voice. "Why would you be afraid, Saya?"

"Because—I'm not sure how we'll fit. As something more than fighters. We've never had a chance to..."

"To what?"

"Be normal, I guess."

Pensive, Haji absorbs the word. Then, he gathers her into his arms. Her first instinct is to peel herself away:  _NoI'mfineIt'sNothing!_ But it is followed by a tremor of relief when she tips her head to take in his expression—at once piercing and tender.

He is never easy to read, but she is learning, the way animals learn to sense the grind of tectonic plates before earthquakes, how to parse his subtle signals. In the war, they'd never mattered so much to her. Never felt like they could knock her off-balance.

Until he was gone—taking her entire center of gravity, and the ground beneath her feet.

"Normal is a subjective word," he says, "I would rather shape it to our lives, then let our lives be shaped by it."

"But what if it's not enough? What  _I'm_  not enough? For you. For the life you deserve to have."

He encompasses her tighter in his embrace. "You deserve that life twice as much as I do."

"Sometimes... I doubt it."

"Please have more faith in yourself. It will be different. If you let it."

"What if it's not?"

"There is no point worrying about what hasn't come to pass." His quiet resolve seems to resonate in the air around them; in the moonlight, it practically gleams in his free-floating curls, the glints of his blue eyes. "Nor is there a way to force becoming into being, until the time is right."

"Like... in the war?"

"It held its share of lessons."

 _God_. What an understatement. They've both learned disaster and disappointment from the war, self-denial and solitude. Yet despite those ugly times, knee-deep in bloodshed, the trust that should have shattered between them had been forged solid.

Blooming, burgeoning, becoming—inexplicably—into  _this_.

Maybe that's all the more reason not to speculate about the future? To snatch at whatever they have in the moment—because the moment is all that matters.

"...I'm just not used to it," she whispers.

"To what?"

"Taking as given that we'll be happy. We will... won't we?"

It is blurted on a blush, like a lost child, embarrassed to need the reassurance, but unable to quell the urge.

In answer, Haji envelops her shoulders, his cool palm coasting from her spine to the nape of her neck. No one can hug her like he does. She wonders, sometimes, where he'd first picked it up: this potent gift to soothe. Certainly not from her. Maybe it's a natural talent, like the effortless way he plays cello, his unerring aim with throwing-knives, the trancey sweetness of his kisses.

Her skin burns, a flush of longing as much as shyness.

When he tips her face up, a quiet query, she reaches at the same time to encircle his neck. The kiss comes with a dizzy smoothness, like all their kisses do, as if they've rehearsed them together day and night.

Haji pulls her closer against him, gently. But she feels the heat brimming up in him. His desire is always slow to rise. But when it does, it is like a current in dark water, powerful and unyielding.

These few days, she has tasted, in small doses, how he experiences her—the intensity, the bottomlessness, the sheer overflow of it. It is frightening, yet fascinating: herself in Haji's eyes. Whereas her own desires for him, mutable as wildfire, have always existed in a kind of vault, its borders harshly defended.

But is it worth it, to hold herself apart anymore? To punish him by punishing herself?

Her hand curls tighter around the lapels of his coat; her mouth opens against his. The kiss changes from a slow dip to a hot, deep dive. There is a catch in Haji's breath. She feels his pulse accelerate, a spike in the smooth mechanism of bone and blood that is his body.

Unexpectedly, he waltzes her back to pin her against the car door. Hands catch her face. Cool, long-fingered hands that smell of rosin and soap. The familiar scent anchors her. But the kiss, passing from tongue to tongue, becomes like the sea inside—full of risks and riptides.

Saya's breath spangles on a sigh. All their kisses so far have been short ones: some sweet, some spicy. But each one a variation of a single chaste theme. This is different—almost like learning a new language. Each curl of tongue, and scrape of teeth, and slide of lips a strange, exciting turn of phrase.

 _Mine_. It goes through her in a hot tremor of need.  _Mine. Mine._

Then Haji's hands are on her, cool and careful. Not laying claim but seeking permission. Shivering, she curves her spine, softens her muscles. Trying to make herself easy to kiss, easy to touch, easy to take.

Except it is never easy.

Each time they are at this mid-point, a trapdoor opens inside her, adrenaline spilling out. It feels like a blow in the battlefield, peptides crackling from her musculature to her brainpan.

Readying her for danger.

But there is no danger. Only the cool pressure of Haji's mouth, the sleek flex of his tongue. He crowds into her slowly, one thigh up between hers. The bandaged hand tangles in her hair; the other passes and repasses along her body. Roaming down her throat, the line of her shoulder, the curve of one breast. He's not yet been so demonstrative in showing his desire. Soon they are both breathing heavily, sine waves of heat humming in the air between them.

"H-Haji—"

Her Chevalier stops, chastened, like a gentleman caught in a breach of decorum. "What's the matter?"

"N-Nothing."

He withdraws his hand. "You're shaking."

She can't answer. Her eyes burn red with the heat spreading under her skin, the telltale energy that makes her such a terror in battle. But here? She has no idea what to do with it here. It leaves her shredded inside: raw and aching and paralyzed.

"Saya?"

"I-I'm fine." She swallows. "Like I said. I'm not... used to this."

Haji's expression changes, as if her words hold a profound echo, their resonance hitting the true iceberg of inhibitions inside her. He goes solemn, and with the quiet deference that characterizes everything they do together, smooths her dress down.

"Forgive me."

"Ssh. I liked it. I was just... surprised."

"That was not my intention." He meets her eyes, with such lustful reverence it makes her shiver. "I never want you to feel pressured, Saya. Not on my account."

"I know, Haji. I promise you aren't pressuring me."

"But you will tell me, if I am?"

She dredges up playfulness. "With a punch of honesty."

The knuckles of her injured hand brush his chin, so light it becomes a caress. He catches her hand and kisses it, cool and pure as a snowflake fallen on her skin.

In that moment, the dizziness dissolves as if it never was. She is perfectly, serenely safe.

They remain entwined together. Gently, Saya puts her other hand up to his hairline, smoothing the dark curls. How to tell him, the depth of sensation that arises from that simple touch? How overwhelming it is, just to be so close to him?

But the way Haji sighs, his eyes falling dreamily shut, tells her he feels it too.

"We can pick up where we left off," she suggests tentatively. "At the villa."

"Sssh. There is no hurry."

His voice is quiet. But she feels the tension stirred by her words, a depth-charge beneath the calm of the blue sea.

A smile sneaks out of her. "Or we can do it here? A parked car. A moonlit night. Nobody around but—"

This time, his kiss is neither cool nor pure. His mouth covers hers as an imperative. Even as she returns it, he is snatching her closer, as if clutching at something it is too dangerous to grow accustomed to, yet something he craves like blood.

The summer breeze kicks up, stirring the sparse trees, stirring up her thoughts. If she gives the word, she realizes he will make love to her right in the backseat of the car, as frantic as two teenagers.

She also realizes she wants him just as badly. But the want is knotted with fear. Beyond inexperience or intimacy. It is fear at inhabiting her own body. At being present and complete and alive.

Because  _Alive_  is still synonymous with  _Wrong_.

All at once, a van zooms by. Hi-beams flash across the shoulder in dazzling spears of light, leaving behind red floaters on darkness as it screeches off at rubbernecker speed.

Gasping, Saya and Haji break free.

_For God's sake!_

The roar of the van should've been loud as a foghorn to their preternatural hearing. But it's evident that Haji was equally blindsided.

Their eyes meet. A blink, then two, before something almost like hilarity rises. Haji shakes his head, his lips forming a not-quite-a-smile. Saya covers her mouth with both hands, giggles burbling in the back of her throat.

"Maybe a parked car isn't a good idea," she manages.

"Perhaps not."

"Anyway. I just realized. There's no way you'd fit in the backseat."

"You believe so?"

She gives him a speaking once-over.  _Yes, I do._  The hatchback is made to the typical proportions of  _Kei jidōsha_ —literally  _light automobile_. Her Chevalier, well over six feet, would have to fold himself like a rug to fit inside.

"Funny," she muses, "At the Zoo, I used to envy how tall you were. Just the right size to hold the cello. Or to grab the blackcurrant jam from the kitchen shelves. But here's one thing I don't have to worry about."

"What is that?"

"There's no way you can fool around with other girls in this car. Not without kicking out all the windows."

Haji's look is dryly eloquent.  _I am glad your priorities are straight._

She watches him draw a cellphone from his coat—a sleek black model identical to hers, except in color (hers is pink, naturally). He handles it without undue concern, like paging through a book. She finds this oddly charming. But then, for all his old-fashioned trappings, Haji is too practical to be a luddite.

Calling the police, he reports a drunk driver in the area.

"It's probably just a bunch of teenagers," she remarks, when he hangs up.

"Or an inebriate American."

She bites back a smile. He's stayed in Okinawa twelve years during her Long Sleep. Enough time to acquire the locals' distaste for troublemaking tourists. Enough to acquire a lot of things, really—except for a colorful wardrobe and a suntan.

None of it for his own sake, but hers. To fit himself into her life, after the war.

Tenderness catches like a barb in her throat. When he starts handing her into the car, with the same respectful intimacy as he'd once helped her board a carriage in another century, her fingers tighten on his.

"Haji?"

"Yes?"

"Send the car home on its own. I don't want to drive."

Ever-vigilant, he frowns, "What's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?"

"No. Just—"

"Just what?"

"Let's take the old-fashioned way. It's faster."

Her gaze catches his, to let him know what she means. Let him know why she wants to take the faster route.

Haji doesn't say anything. But his eyes, under heavy lids, spark into blue witchfire. Gathering her close, he barely pauses a moment to sling their lunchbag over his shoulder, before activating the car's self-navigating controls.

Then he  _leaps_ —a deep-sea diver falling in reverse. A challenge to kinematics and gravity itself.

Ocean glitters below, the dark network of the highway spreading out around them. Salt-spray and windsong fills her ears. But all Saya feels is the circle of his arms—and the drum of her own hidden heart. Anxiety and anticipation.

But she will endure it. As long as it is Haji, she can endure anything.

Anything that makes the ache—of the war, of the past, of  _Diva_ —go away.

If only for a little while.

* * *

_No idea when the next chapter will fall. Nonetheless I'll try to pen it down and post it soon._

_Hope you guys enjoyed!_

_Review please! :3_


	4. Glass Half-Full (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoookay! Chapter 3! Full of angst, but with an (hopefully??? hue hue hue :3) uplifting ending. Also fair warning: no idea when ch 4 will be completed. It may be three weeks from now, or longer than that. RL is getting in the way, as always. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! And thank you so much for the lovely feedback on the earlier chapters! Each review/comment legitimately brightens up my day, and makes me eager to churn out more content. 
> 
> So... hem hem, more feedback will make Lullabyes write more stuff.
> 
> Just sayin' >3

* * *

They arrive at the villa just before midnight.

The sea-air whips at their clothes. Haji cuts through space the same way, sharp as a manta-ray slicing the night. Coattails flapping with the easy descent, shoes soft on the sparkling sand.

He sets her down with equal softness, plenty of space between them.

"Um. Thank you," Saya manages.

Politely, he inclines his head. But she feels the quiet burn of his gaze. The moment should feel anticipatory, thrilling. Yet, dizzy from the flight, she seems to drop clumsily down to earth.

No second-thoughts—but a failure to trust reality.

At the gate, Haji punches in a code—wired to both their fingerprints. The gate swings noiselessly open. They walk the rest of the way up through the silvered dunes, to where their destination nestles on a sloping abutment overlooking the ocean.

The villa is Red Shield's. Comfortable and well-appointed, in the way of all property belonging to the organization.

But this place is special. Not because it is designated for the use of a Chiropteran Queen, for her Chevalier—although this is undoubtedly the purpose of its soundproofed basement, sleekly fitted out with an indoor pool and a training room, and the fresh blood-packs delivered like clockwork to its marble kitchens, and the touchscreen panels in every room with customized settings for light and temperature control, and the multi-layered alarm systems of interior and exterior night vision cameras, and the attached outdoor solarium that doubles as a hot-tub.

All of that, in itself, is impressive—and more than a little disorienting to Saya. (She still hasn't grasped the breadth of technological connection in this future, or how matter-of-factly it fits into every facet of daily life).

No—the villa is special because Haji stayed here during her Long Sleep.

Her Chevalier was quiet during their airborne journey. Quiet still, as he shuts the door behind them, and activates the alarm on the keypad. From the corner of her eye, Saya watches him—a dark sleek shape that should echo the dark sleek intentions springing loose in her mind. She'd had  _plans_ , avidly cultivated during the flight. Candles, wine, music, silky little underthings.

But now, shyness is so enormous it pinions her.

"Haji, I, um—"

She breaks off on a full-body shiver as he flows up behind her. His hands clasp her elbows, before sliding around, cool fingers knitting themselves over her ribcage. He looms in close, his cheek alongside hers. His face is cool too, but not smooth; the sanding of fine hairs there always remind her more of velvet than stubble.

Kissing her ear, he whispers, "Hungry?"

"For f-food?"

"If that is what you call Kai's cooking."

" _Hey_." She starts to defend her brother's culinary skills—then deflates with a giggle. "At least the boiled eggs are nice."

"I can fix more of those for you."

'"No. It's fine. I've been doing nothing but stuffing my face lately."

"You need to. You are still too thin."

This might be criticism, but she hears the concern. She still isn't up to her normal weight since the Awakening. Her appetite is robust as ever. But food seems to trickle through her like water from a colander. Nothing fills her up anymore.

Maybe her belly, weaned on blood and bonemeal in the war, has forgotten how to be satisfied with anything else?

"I'm  _fine_ ," she insists. "Anyway, aren't there, um, other things you'd rather do?"

"Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know..." She tries for a sexy lilt, but it fails her at the last moment on a red-flushed stutter. "Something involving poking, grilling, tenderizing..."

Haji exhales a chuckle—soundless yet husky-edged. It catches her off-guard. She isn't yet accustomed to their shared snatches of humor. Yet it comes easily, as if the childhood ghosts residing in the homes of their bodies have kept an ongoing score of every deprivation in the midst of the larger, messier, scarier trajectory in their lives.

_Any minute now, I'm going to wake up._

_Any minute, the universe will end._

It doesn't.

Haji nuzzles the spot where her jaw melts into neck. She shivers again, twisting her head to catch his mouth with hers. The kiss zips hotly through her, scalp to groin to tiptoes. Her pulse spikes, adrenaline bursting in her bloodstream.

Just like on the highway. But this time she can master it.

It's easier than expected. Everything about Haji—from the slowness of his manner to the close-range glint of his blue eyes to the undemanding fit of his body—makes her feel  _safe_. His tongue links hers between their parted lips, a shy flirting that soon shapes into a hungry arrhythmic sync. The give and take is nearly as effortless as when they'd fight side-by-side, when they'd waltz, or fence, or play cello.

They break apart on gasps. She lets off a giggle. "I didn't think—"

"What?"

"I didn't think I'd—"  _Love kissing you as much as I do._  Hard to believe she'd gone without something so ... essential. She wants to tell him that, but it will sound so strange. She gently bites his chin instead. " 'You kiss—by th'book.' "

Haji buries his face in her hair. She feels the imprint of his smile. "The Old Testament or  _The Pearl_?"

"Both, I think."

For all the monosyllabic straightforwardness between them, these flirtations stir her up like the most red-hot raunch. It's a new territory—all twists and turns. The way he segues smoothly from banter to bluntness; the way he wields silence as a  _mot juste_  as much as a punchline. Discoveries that delight her, because they align so perfectly with her own tastes—a sense of fitting that she hasn't felt since the day she'd heard Diva's song and her heart had stretched yearningly toward it in its cage.

Then she hears Diva's voice, as if right in her ear.  _It can be that way again, big sister._

Nausea surges. She flinches.

Haji touches her face. "What's wrong?"

"N-Nothing."

"You're sure?"

"Y-Yeah. I'm—"  _Fine. I'm can't be anything other than fine._

Except Haji's eyes are on her. Always reading her with insight and intuition. Gently, he turns her to face him. "We do not have to do anything tonight, Saya."

"No, I—I  _want_ to." Over a century already wasted. Months swallowed by amnesia, so only a measly two and a half years remain. She sighs. "There's so little time for us."

"Ssh. We have all the time in the world." He kisses her forehead. " _You_ have all the time, and it will get easier for you. I promise."

_What if it doesn't?_

She can't bring herself to ask.

They stay clasped together. But the mood is broken up, desire congealed into the old icewater of uncertainty. She ought to say goodnight and turn in—except she can't bear to let the evening end with a desultory dinner and a kiss. That is too much like the not-touching they've been doing these past weeks at Omoro.

She tries a coaxing smile. "Why don't you give me a proper tour? There's a lot of rooms I haven't seen yet."

It's a pathetic ploy, and Haji recognizes it. But he also recognizes why she is asking. So he takes her by the hand, and leads her deeper into the villa.

For the next few minutes, he shows her around, their footsteps cat-soft on the thick rugs. She peers into the neat, softly-lit, dustless rooms. The layout is symmetrical and high-ceilinged, with the unmistakable aura of reverb. Somber Louis Philippe-influenced furniture with graceful Japanese touches of a moon-viewing window, a tatami dining-area, low-floating  _akari_  lanterns, sliding panels lacquered with black and gold Japonaiserie—a compelling combination of European curves and Eastern angles.

Finally, they stop at the staircase leading to the bedrooms. Their eyes meet; she drops hers with a flush. Her Chevalier seems much the same. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but holding himself at a courteous distance.

Silence teeters like a tightrope walker. Then:

"This place is, um, bigger than I expected," she chirps. "There's something almost nostalgic about it."

"How so?"

"It kinda reminds me of the Zoo."

He smiles faintly. "A few items here are from the Zoo."

"Wh-what?"

"Monsieur Goldschmidt VI. A year before your Awakening, he sent boxes from the family's storage vault. Old belongings of yours, salvaged after the Bordeaux Sunday."

"Why would he do that?"

His smile fades. "He has taken ill. I suppose he wanted to sort out his affairs... while he still could."

"I-I didn't realize."

Guilt creeps in. Apart from a pleasant  _Welcome Back_  phone-call soon after her Awakening, she'd not spoken to Monsieur Goldschmidt at all. Had not even thought about him, really—but given the circumstances, was that surprising?

Her friends and family had their own lives now. And she'd gone from being the focal-point to the loose end in them.

She supposes many soldiers, home from war, feel the same way. In the early days of her Awakening, she'd been half-glad for the space. It gave her time to put herself back together into  _Saya_ —whoever she was now.

Still, Joel had fought in the war side-by-side with her. If he was ill, she must see him at least once, before...

"Maybe I can visit him," she says.

"He is in Paris. At the Hôpital Saint-Louis."

Haji says this in a cautionary tone, as if dissuading her from making the trip. Why? Is Monsieur Goldschmidt too sick to take visitors? Or does Haji think she's not yet ready for the journey, her post-war trauma a crazy splinter lodged in the brain?

_Can you blame him?_

Wincing, she shakes it off. "Will you show me, Haji? The things he's sent?"

Haji nods. She follows him, finally, up the spiraling staircase reminiscent of a denuded seashell. The second floor is spacious, done in the colors of sand and stone, a thick shoji-style screen of frosted glass letting onto a balcony overlooking the sea.

To the west wing is the first bedroom, its center three-row window made of a stained-glass mosaic of multicolored mandalas. It is simply furnished: a dresser, a writing desk and a wide low bed, its fitted sheets giving off a fresh scent of laundry and little else. It mirrors a second bedroom in the east wing, with identical design and décor, both of them connected by a sleek high-ceilinged sitting space with a narrow kitchenette.

Kai, when he'd first seen the separate bedrooms, had raised an eyebrow.  _Sorry she snores so loud, bro,_  he'd gruffed, clapping a hand on Haji's shoulder.

But the arrangement wasn't unusual for Saya and Haji. In their era, before the bourgeois model of the conjugal bedchamber took over, it was perfectly permissible for well-to-do couples to have different bedrooms, for reasons ranging from separate sleep schedules to adhering to genteel standards of privacy.

That's what this boils down to:  _privacy_.

After her Long Sleep, she craves her own space,  _any_  space, so badly. Haji, without argument, has accepted that. The room is a refuge where she has amassed her old things with each trip—the highschool memorabilia, the family photographs and girlish fripperies.

Her sword.

She wants to go there now and heft her weapon in her hands—an anchoring in time and place. But her attention is diverted by the boxes crowding the sitting room. Most are her own, full of presents from her family. Others, which she'd felt furtive about examining on past visits, open with Haji's pocketknife to a gust of mothballs and memories.

Her eyes widen. "Oh God. This is—"

Haji lifts the flap of the box, then steps back to let her pore over the treasures.

Carefully, Saya lifts out the contents. Her mind is abuzz with excitement. Here is a shawl of pale Chantilly lace from her girlhood, yellowed with age. There is a tortoiseshell haircomb, its tines caught in the fabric of musty white silk stockings—both imported from the shores of then-Peking.

Heavy volumes of books are piled beneath. An elaborately-illustrated collection of fairytales by Charles Perrault and Gianfrancesco Straparola. A handful of novellas:  _Les Mystères de Paris, Salammbô,_  and her favorite,  _Varney the Vampire_.

Nestled under the pile are more belongings. A delicate bottle of perfume, carrying the essence of bergamot that was fashionable in her heyday. An exquisite ormolu jewelry box, containing a silver cameo brooch, now tarnished black, and a bracelet of gold with the initials S.G carved on it. A small diary, bound in rich dark leather, is tucked beneath. When she turns its parchment pages, flowers flutter to the floor, browned and brittle.

Mementos from the Zoo's gardens.

Laughing, she gathers up the pressed blooms. "Pink roses! One from you, each afternoon."

Her Chevalier leans against the mantelshelf, his soft eyes drinking in her every reaction. "...You kept them in your diary?"

"Of course. You always chose the loveliest ones for me."

"You deserved each of them."

"That's sweet of you to say." Sighing, she traces her thumbs across the crinkly petals. "Come to think of it, you were the only person who gave me flowers for no reason but  _because_. Like it was a secret just between us." She smiles, with the faintest blush. "No wonder half the household thought we were lovers."

He returns her smile. Then it fades into something vaguer, most wistful. "Flowers were all I had to offer you."

"Huh?"

Haji's eyes stay on the roses in her hands. "I was a boy when I came to you, Saya. From nothing. With nothing. My... utility was based solely on my expendability." His utility as meatsuit procured to impregnate her, he means. "Yet you were always kind to me. You made the Zoo feel like home, when I believed home lost to me altogether. As I grew older, I hoped to repay your kindness. To be fit for your trust... if not your love."

"Haji..." The unexpectedness of this stuns her to silence.

"When you took up arms against Diva, I swore to guard your back. Yet all I could do was watch you fight, and suffer." He exhales, the traceries of dark memory breaking through on his face. "I could never be your home, or your shelter. Not the way you were mine. I could never grant you the same happiness you had given me."

"I..."

Her throat is a knot. She wants to beg him:  _Please don't tell me this. I can't bear to know blind I was to everything but ending the war._

_For myself. For Diva._

"And if I had returned your feelings?" she whispers. "Would it have made anything different?"

Haji's gaze shades. "Love is its own shield, is it not?"

She is confused—but the sorrow in his tone dawns the meaning upon her. He doesn't regret that she'd never returned his feelings. He regretted that duty had consumed every iota of her life, so there was room for nothing else. A duty that she belonged to as much as it belonged to her—a dreadful marriage vow turned death-pact.

It had permitted no sharing: enduring it was her own solitary struggle.

While he'd watched, kept at an arm's length. Grieving not for himself, but for her. Because without the superstructure of love to fortify her, she'd battled unarmed and alone.

She whispers: "You've repaid me a hundred times over, Haji. You've kept me safe. And  _alive_. But—" Tears threaten to surface; she blinks fiercely. "You can't stop my suffering. Not then... and not now."

Can't stop, either, the memories that are always a blow to the skull, a darkening to blood-red of all that is bright and natural, so she lives her life now in a state of hellish double-exposure, the shock of the war dragging her back one moment into nights of viscera and screams, then swinging her forward into a future of such gaping emptiness it nearly unhinges her.

In those moments, she wonders if she'd been better off dead. Out of her misery, and cured of the loneliness that has only deepened with Diva's demise.

_Stop it._

Then Haji says: "I cannot stop your suffering. But I can at least ensure that you never suffer alone."

"Haji..."

His eyes are tender, but fearlessly direct. "Your life has been hard and dangerous, Saya. But I swore to myself, after the war, that you would never be in want again. That you would have a place, with or without me, where you could be yourself."

"Myself...?"

"Call it home, if you will. Or a rest-stop. Whatever you choose. But the choosing is entirely yours."

Moved, she can't speak for a moment. Her vision blurs with tears. In the low light, he is a rippling apparition, at once darkly elegant and achingly familiar.

 _Hers_.

She's always thought of him that way, never mind the abundant arrogance of it. Her sanctuary and sword, her unfailing ace of spades.

But now, she realizes, with a start, that he is all but pledging to be  _hers_  in a different way. In her license to touch him. To count the dark spikes of his eyelashes. To know the taste of his mouth, and his fingertips, and his skin.

All the secrets that pass only between lovers. All the things she'd carved out of their relationship, to keep it cold and hard and ruthless. Not realizing that the missing piece would continue to ache for years afterward, like a raw wound.

_Mine._

_He's mine._

Then Haji catches her gaze, and holds it. She finds herself sidling past the cardboard boxes, the crinkled flowers dropping away. The toes of her pink suede booties come into contact with the glossy black of his shoes, and then her body melts into his, his arms passing around her, a cradle in which all things, the fleeting and ordinary touches of the past, and the deep and tenuous sensations of present, blur together into a soft depthless dark.

A dark to fall into.

She lifts her good hand to caress his scarred jaw, thumb stroking the lips. Shivers when he catches it with his teeth, not a bite but a cool curl of tongue. His eyes hold a strange interior glow.

Blushing, she whispers, "I already have a place that's all mine. I have you, don't I?"

He lets her thumb go to smile. "Always."

"Then that's all I need. I hope... it is for you, too."

Haji's swathed Chiropteran claw covers her hand. He squeezes tightly. "A thousand times over, Saya. There is no one else I could belong with."

"Did you ever try to? With anyone else, I mean?"

"No one could ever take your place."

It sounds like a tactful sidestep. Her smile wobbles. "Wouldn't? Shouldn't? Couldn't?"

"Shall not." He drops a fluttering kiss to her brow. "Will not." Tender kisses on her closed eyelids. "Cannot." A kiss like a sweet full-stop to her mouth. "Ever."

She feels his assertion in her body, closer to gospel than appeasement. Her hand tightens on his claw, cupped over his jaw where she feels the steady vibration of his heartbeat.

"You've dared so much for me," she whispers. "I wish I could do the same. Be ready to dare it all. To give you everything you want."

"I only want you to be happy."

She knows he'd say that. It is what he's quietly repeated over the past weeks, whenever she grows fretful with her own stalling about their relationship, and reinforcement seems necessary.

It shouldn't hurt so much, but it does. Especially because she knows he means every word.

That's what compels her to say, "I want to give you everything, anyway."

"What?"

"I'm saying I'm ready to, um—"

And then she stops, because how exactly do you approach this? To say  _Have sex_  is too blunt.  _Sleep together_? She can already picture him raising a dry eyebrow _. Go all the way_. Passable, but still inadequate. Why do they call it  _going all the way_  when, for her, it is the continuation of a conversation she and Haji have already been having, in stops and starts, across the decades?

Not a beginning or an end, but a  _becoming_?

Then Haji rescues her from the disaster of semantics. "There is no reason to rush into this."

"But—"

He puts her back, gently. "It has been a long day. You should rest."

"Oh, come on. Where's your sense of spontaneity?" A tiny pink-cheeked smile. "Is it because you're wearing goofy boxers under your suit? Something with polka dots or puppies?"

Now he  _does_  raise an eyebrow. "I prefer cat-prints, myself."

Saya's breath puffs out in laughter. Each time, it is gratifying to realize that even in the midst of intense conversations, the intimacy between them never fades.

At her laugh, Haji's own body relaxes, notch by notch, leaving pure affection behind. Seizing her chance, she burrows closer. His skin gives off no heat under the clothes: a night-temperature coolness. But when she leans up on tiptoe, he meets her lips with a kiss that is at once hot and trancy.

Lighting her up and melting her inside.

Shivering, Saya flows against him. Lets the kiss deepen, feeding on itself. The touch of his tongue, soft, electric, draws a small sound from her. Haji lets off a throaty hum of his own, and the noise echoes through her. Takes the shape of thoughtless longing, so she suddenly wants to touch and taste and gnaw him everywhere, even as the impatience to have him inside is stronger.

_Mine, mine, mine._

It is a refrain that pulses with her heart. Closer to necessity than prosaic lust.

"Come to bed," she whispers into his parted lips.

"Saya—"

Kissing him again, she slips her fingers into his waistband. Tugs him, with a soft insistence, in the direction of the bedrooms.

Except she isn't familiar enough with the villa to navigate so easily. They skid off the wall to tumble amongst the cardboard boxes. The upended contents spill everywhere.

"Oof!"

Startled, Saya finds herself caught beneath Haji in the dusty avalanche, her face likewise caught in his hands. Her whole body is thrown-open, throbbing; his weight holds her immobilized with a helplessness she's never experienced before.

Is that—exciting? Or frightening?

Unsteadily, she wriggles out from under him. "S-Sorry."

Haji simply helps her to her feet. "Let me put everything away."

" _Later_. Right now, I-I want..."

She breaks off. Her eyes fall on what one of the boxes has divulged: familiar dresses in the  _robe à la polonaise_ cut of decades past—one a soft lavender with a frilly collar of Reticella lace, the next a day-gown of springtime pink, and the last a crepey extravaganza of Muscovite velvet in dark red, the gathered fabric of the skirt meant for a bustle to shape it to fullness.

Stunned, she lifts out the last dress. "This was my  _devantiere_!"

"I remember," Haji murmurs. "You often wore it when we went horseriding."

"It was my favorite. It had a nice split up the skirt so I could ride astride—"

Unaccountably, she feels her cheeks flush. Perhaps  _riding_  is the wrong—or right?—subject for the moment.

Clearing her throat, she gathers up the heaped fabrics to return to their box. Something tumbles from under the voluminous layers of skirts—a framed photo.

It clatters at her feet. She kneels to retrieve it, then freezes.

"Oh."

Haji frowns. "What is it?"

"It's... Joel."

The first Joel—her beloved father and benevolent jailer. He peers at her from a photograph she has never seen before: a daguerreotype in an oval frame, his seated shape at once diminutive and distinguished in a dark evening suit with a tweed waistcoat, his favored pocketwatch dangling on a chain.

Saya stares at his deeply-lined face, at the brush mustache and half-lidded eyes, somehow expecting the sight of him to summon up the essence of what he'd been to her—a gaze that was all mild kindness, the scent of tobacco and spice oils, the distant paternal affection that expressed itself in hugs and head-pats and presents. All the pieces that would still connect him to her, carried forward into this new world, into the new life she is ready to begin after avenging his death, and the loss of their home.

But the photograph stays dull and strange in her hands. A reminder of all Joel's vanity and mistakes—and her own.

Her eyes fall on the second person in the photograph. She blinks, unable at first to comprehend what she is seeing. Then the shock leaps at her like a hand closing around the throat, so she chokes.

Concerned, Haji draws nearer. "Saya?"

"That—that's—"

A girl who looks like Saya—but is not.

She kneels by Joel's feet, not like a cherished child, but a pet. No—something more debased than that. A  _thing_. Her posture is furtive: shoulders hunched, head hung awkwardly, as if slapped. Her clothes are a frayed cotton chemise, unbuttoned to show ribs that stand out like ladders under small breasts tipped with dark rosettes of nipples. Her hair tumbles into her face, not quite concealing the smudge of bruising on her cheek.

The sepia bleeds the color out of her blue eyes. Yet they seem to leap out of the frame, hollow and haunted, a  _memento mori_ portrait come to life.

"...Diva."

Her sister, her enemy, her other self. Staring from beyond the centuries with that awful look of hers—full of bottomless hunger and a nearly unholy serenity that belies the possessive curl of Joel's hand around her nape.

His prized test subject, captured forever by the camera's eye.

_Oh God. Oh God._

The portrait slips from her fingers. It shatters on the hardwood floor—a tinkling echo like Diva's song.

Stricken, she drops to gather up the mess. Haji kneels at the same time. "Saya, careful—glass!"

Too late. Her palm splits neat and deep on the shards. Blood sluices out.

Wincing, Haji reaches for her. "Saya—"

She evades him. Her attention stays fixed on the photo. The disorienting glow of Diva's gaze, the mad misery of it, stuns her. Her own eyes go hot, then blurry. A tear splatters the spiderwebbed frame.

Haji's voice cuts in and out of her ears like a radio on the fritz "...should have left this for later...it was too soon for...please let me..."

He reaches for the photo. She jerks it away. The pain blossoms red and rhythmic in her wounded hand. But she barely feels it. Barely feels  _anything_  around a humming ratcheting up inside herself.

_You're the one who unlocked the door and released me..._

_Why is it only happening to me?_

_Saya...I'm scared..._

Oh God, and how Saya had begged to die with her...

"Saya—"

Haji's cool hands grasp her shoulders; she realizes she's crumpled to the floor, bones gone to jelly, the photograph—wet and red-edged now—in her torn palm. Her whole body shakes with sobs.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry."

Who is she apologizing to? Impossible to say.

Gently, Haji scoops her up. Lays her down on the chaise, and inspects her torn hand, feeling her palm and fingertips with soft tracings of his thumb. Assured nothing is damaged, he fetches a moistened handkerchief to clean off the blood.

Kneeling before her, he radiates a heartbreaking distress.

"Forgive me," he whispers. "I should have put those boxes away. You were in no state to do this. Not yet."

She can't answer. Sobs bubble up thickly; it is hard to breathe. Her broken wrist, in its cast, throbs crazily. But on her other hand, the gash closes up, as if it never was.

Strange, how her body works. How she can be so torn open with giddy lust one moment, yet closed-up with misery the next.

"It's n-not that, Haji," she stammers. "I'm just—"

_Wishing I was dead._

_Wondering why I'm not, when Diva is._

"Sssh." Gently, Haji takes her teary face in his hands, kissing her forehead. His eyes are so blue, like Diva's, but pale and calm. Gazing into them, that familiar quiet descends, her breath and pulse slowing. A cool sweetness that is like a spoonful of sugar, a lungful of air.

A glass half-full.

Sniffling, she dabs at her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I wanted tonight to be special. Not this—mess."

"It doesn't matter, Saya." Taking her right hand, he kisses the pale curl of fingers peeping from the plaster. "We can revisit this later."

"I don't  _want_  to revisit it later. We've already put it off for decades!"

"We can survive putting it off for longer. Until—"

"Until what? I'm  _sane_  again?"

He flinches. "That is not what I meant."

" _It is_. I'm not—all there. Don't you think I realize that?"

The ache in her wrist ratchets up—a reminder of exactly how she'd broken it, two days earlier. The strange voice that had stirred her awake at three a.m, as if from the edge of a dream. The way it had lured her, barefoot and shivery, out of her muggy room in Omoro and into the moonlit streets.

_Saya..._

It was such a familiar voice—sweat and coaxing as the night breeze on her skin. Yet so faint that it barely registered over Saya's breathing, the thud of her own heart. It seemed to spiral down through the dead black of space, tiny motes of sonic dust catching in her ears. It caught her and held her perfectly still.

_Please._

_Come with me._

Then: a slithering movement to her left. Alarmed, she'd swung toward it. The falling moonlight picked apart a shape of glossy blackness, a faint impression of scales and glinting blue eyes. 

_Saya..._

_"Saya!"_

The shout had overlapped the  _screech_ of tires and blaring horns—followed by that awful metallic  _crunch_ that sent her flying, agony singing through her body, a deafening vibrato like the inside of a struck bell.

She'd have been crushed completely by the oncoming truck if Haji hadn't snatched her away. She can't remember the details of the rescue—shock, disorientation. But Kai and Diva's twins told her about it, later at the hospital. How her eyes were blank and red, and she didn't recognize anyone, and spoke in a language that wasn't English-French-Japanese, but something rasping, garbled, ceaseless.

Lunacy distilled to its purest essence.

She can't remember any of that. Nothing, except her family gathered around her bed afterward, pale faces knit with concern, as if they could practically see the craziness seeping out of her.

The only one who didn't mention it was Haji. He just smoothed the damp hair from her forehead, murmuring,  _Next time,_   _I will watch over you better. So this does not happen again._

So  _what_  didn't happen again?

So she didn't float off into an absence that was tantamount to insanity? So she didn't try seeking out the death that refused to meet her halfway?

Shaking it off, she says quietly: "Haji, I know I'm crazy."

"Saya— _no_. That's not—"

"I am. Don't deny it." She swallows. "But crazy or not, I wouldn't want this if it wasn't real. If it wasn't  _you_. Haji—I  _want_  us to be together. We've waited so long. Why shouldn't we begin now, when we're finally here with nothing awful distracting us?" Swiping at her face, she tries a watery smile. "I know you think I'm not ready. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. But I've not been ready for half the disasters I've faced. If this is a disaster too ... well. At least it won't break the trend."

She means it as a joke. But the moment the words leave her lips, the room vanishes in an acrid wash of tears. Crumpling, she buries her face in her hands.

God, maybe this is Diva's revenge from beyond? Taking every happy moment in Saya's life, and twisting it into a sick farce.

She might almost be in the room right now, staring at Saya with twinkly malice in her blue eyes.

"Saya—sssh."

Haji circles her in, but she flinches: the vision hasn't yet loosened its grip. In the next breath, she melts against him. The sobs pour out of her, softly at first, then harder and faster. Sighing, he folds her closer. Cool and solid, his arms tight enough to contain the entire convulsive storm of her emotions.

He's always been so patient. She feels, now as then, like he can absorb all her turmoil. Supplant it with absolute calm.

Amazing, how she'd not yet realized it...

Even crying is a comfort, in his arms.

"Haji," she hiccups. "So many bad things have happened. But now we're together. That  _has_  to mean something good. You once said I was your reason for being. I'd like to believe—" She chokes. "I'd like to believe it's still true."

Stunned, he brings both her hands to his lips. His eyes conceal nothing. "Of course it is, Saya."

"Then prove it." She leans into him, their foreheads together. "Make love to me."

He bows his head over her hands. She feels him absorbing her words. Absorbing, as if for the first time, her presence. Then something in him eases. Doubtful, tentative, he gazes up at her. Eyes full of a million prayers. All for her.

"Saya, are you sure?"

He always asks this. Always takes care to obtain her consent—before kissing her, touching her.

Tonight, the stakes are higher.

"Haji..."

He waits tensely. As if his entire life rests on her sentence.

A smile moves behind her face. " _Yes_."

Even now, her pronouncement is sacred to him. The tempest in his gaze clears, going blue and soft again. Then all at once, his arms sweep around her. The agony of psychic distance explodes.

Suddenly, she is snatched into his embrace. His lips are cool, almost chilly on hers. But there is an unexpected fire in his kisses. Then his mouth presses hers open; his tongue touches hers and the fire flows seamlessly into liquid, from  _Oh_  to  _Yes_. All the things he can't say strangled back and poured out in lips and teeth and tongue, in the circle of his arms around her.

"Saya," he sighs, and it is devotion and debauchery in two syllables. "Saya, Saya..."

The sound leaps electrically up her body. He moves to her throat, tracing the arc with his teeth, and her head lolls back, a strange displacement creeping in. For a moment, she is outside herself, looking on. A man in dark evening clothes enveloping a woman in a gauzy pink dress, his dark head buried in her neck, her own tossed back extravagantly, lips parted to show fangs.

As if he is weeping and she is mid-bite.

Then Haji catches her mouth again, and she falls dizzily back into herself.

Without breaking the kiss, he scoops her up and rises. Bears her with swift soundless ease to the closest bedroom. Hers—she can tell by the angle of the mosaic windows. Moonlight sets the stained-glass tints aglow, a psychedelia of fairy colors.

Clumsily, they spill across the bed. The moment balances mid-fall, precarious. They both know something is going to happen. Something that not only turns the tides on their future, but on their past as comrades-in-arms, queen and consort, childhood friends. Because they cannot simply be any of those things anymore. They are taking the first steps into uncharted terrain.

From a state of being to a torn-open, terrifying  _becoming_.

Gasping, Haji breaks the kiss. His eyes burn preternaturally bright into hers, and Saya's heart stumbles over itself. Then his hand comes up, curling around her good one. Their fingers twine together. And suddenly she is both off-balance yet right at home.

Because this  _is_  her home. Because this is  _Haji_.

No matter the sea-changes around her, inside her, she is safe with him.

A glass half-full.


	5. Ten Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okaaaay.
> 
> *Ostentatious throat clearing*
> 
> Chapter 4! Wherein our heroes enjoy some long overdue, um, bonding-times. Yeah. All minors please desist reading at this point. Also expect the fic to begin earning its M/Explicit rating from hereon out. Sexuality, in all its dynamic vagaries, is very much a theme in this fic, especially since one of its angles is exploring Saya and Haji's evolving relationship. Nothing too dreadfully traumatic, but no heart-shaped beds and rainbows either.
> 
> Feedback is awesome and I crave it like all things chocolate! Thank you so much to everyone who left their amazing comments last chapter - each one makes me all bouncy and revs me up to finish the next installment as soon as possible. Keep those yummy reviews coming guys! :x

__

* * *

From the idyllic era at the Zoo to her Okinawa days as a schoolgirl, Saya's fantasies of a lover were so vague.

Schoolmates failed to capture her interest. Pornography was practically a horror film. Romantic heroes from steamy novels were an impossible daydream. To the extent she'd ever thought about sex at all, she'd imagined it as a ballroom dance, to the soundtrack of soft sighs and sweet whispered nothings.

Her imagination was tepid. She lacked the physical language.

Learning it, she finds, is as twisted and bittersweet as only decades of history can make it.

For a moment, she and Haji stay sprawled together in bed. Mouths caught together in a hungry eloquence of kisses, his long shape draped across hers, long curls brushing her skin. Each touch seems to pull at the lines of her body, a tide of unsteady want.

Yet the cool touch of his lips keeps her anchored.

_Lesson one._

A kiss doesn't just pass a sentence between bodies. It is the punctuation that defines its entire structure.

They break on gasps. Haji's entire frame is bunched with strain. But his eyes are soft and full of questions.

"Are you all right?"

"Mm."  _So far, so good._  Her gaze dips shyly. "Could you, um, turn down the lights?"

He raises his eyebrows.  _I've seen it all before._

"Please?"

He obeys, extending an arm—eyes still on hers—to hit the control panel at the bedside table. The room darkens all around them, the stark lines and smooth surfaces of bodies merging inexorably with the multicolored crenellations of the window.

But Haji stays supercharged and solid.  _Alive_.

"Tell me," he whispers, "Tell me what to do."

Grounding as much as generosity, she realizes. Voice. Touch. Whatever keeps her in the moment.

If she weren't so moved by his kindness, she'd tease:  _Do your worst._

Instead, she takes his Chiropteran claw, stripping off the scratchy bindings. It is a solid mass of metallic knuckles and iridescent red scales. The black claws are sharp as ravens' beaks. Strange that something so scabrous and terrifying would be so  _welcome_.

Deliberately, she drags the claw beneath her dress. Its coldness sinks into her skin. Her legs and arms are covered in gooseflesh; her tearstained face is blotchy with blushes.

Quietly, she says, "I liked what you were doing before."

Encouragement for him to resume; to be bolder.

In the dimness, Haji's pupils dilate within glowing rings of blue. His concern is palpable. But it is threaded with a recognition of urgency.

Gathering her close, he lets his lips play with hers, until the kiss melts from his, to hers, to theirs. His body, bracketing hers, grows  _heavy_. But she needs that—a mooring against that spacey feeling from before, as if she is floating outside herself, looking on...

At what? A head-spinning shocker? An undeserved gift?

One or the other. It depends on how she seizes it.

Clumsily one-handed, she begins to unbutton his shirt. Yanks the hem from his trousers, tugging on the zipper. Haji makes a tight, unfamiliar noise. Almost a growl. Then both his cool hands are on her, under her dress. Getting to what he wants, even as she works on him. His fingers are steady—but within that shell of steadiness, she practically feels his nerves buzz.

_Lesson two._

Need makes Haji mindful, not selfish. A dark articulation of lust in a root system of pure love.

Dress, shirt, belt, trousers, underwear. Everything scatters like plumage to the floor. The coolish air raises goosebumps on Saya's bare skin. Her hands fly up to cover herself, a helpless reflex of shyness. But Haji catches them in his Chiropteran claw, pinning them—tenderly—back.

Stripped of his own coverings, his thinness is intriguing. Bone and sinew, more a streamlined weapon than a sculpture. The ambiance shows up how pale he is, coloring the tracery of scars spanning down his torso to different hues: green, red, blue.

Yet none of it detracts from his allure. In the colorful ambiance, he almost glows.

Lip bit, Saya skirts her gaze lower. The blush turns to a burn. He looks unabashedly,  _indecently_  ready. But she can feel how leashed he is.

"We can stop whenever you want," he says, and his voice is a shade hoarser than usual, "Just tell me."

"I d-don't want us to stop."

"Saya—"

"Sssh. Come here."

She coaxes him under the covers. The full drape of his body, bony and cool, makes her shiver. His breath is cool too, gusting shakily across her lips. She parts them to share it—kisses that leave them both punch-drunk and panting. The storm of his hair tangles around their faces; the scent is layered in soap and rosin, same as his hands, but also something sweet as rainfall, which makes Saya burrow into him and never want to leave.

Nuzzling his scarred jaw, she whispers, "You're like a marble bust in this light."

His smile is wry. "Full of cracks?"

" _Beautiful_. And solid. And, um—" Their eyes meet, and she blushes. "I-I'm not good at this."

"This?"

"Flattering a man in bed."

"Flattery?" He stretches over her, sleek and languid; she thinks strangely of a wolf, all predatory grace and night-stillness, yet with traces of human in the eyes. "Flattery implies deception."

"N-No deception. I'm just—telling you how I feel about you. The stuff that's in my head."

"Why not show me instead?"

 _Oh_ , she thinks, a hot tremor racing up and down her body—the shaky, savored realization that he is here, nude, on top of her, and that she is doing this. That  _they_  are.

Possessively, she circles him closer. Lets her hands take their own path, tracing down the span of his body. His skin feels smooth as a spill of cream. The fretwork of scars on his body are an intriguing contrast. She sketches them with her fingertips, trying to let each touch talk for her. To telegraph how glad she is to be with him, how giddy and grateful. Haji stays still while she explores. Shivers, and smiles, as if her curiosity charms him. She understands that he will wait forever, if need be—and that excites her like nothing else can.

_Lesson three._

Here as elsewhere, Haji will be the only one she trusts enough to shed her inhibitions with. Even if she can barely trust herself.

Tenderly, she traces her bandaged palm from the crown of his skull to the killing-zone along his nape. Strokes down to the spot between his shoulderblades, the secret base where wings unfurl, staying there, circling with her thumb.

 _I love that you belong to me_ , she tries to say.  _I love that you're trusting me with your body._

It is the nearest she can get to:  _I love you._

Haji's breath hitches gorgeously when her good hand drops to his groin. She takes the tour over rough hair and smooth skin; strange shapes and secret flutters. Hardness. Dampness.  _Heat_. A tiny frisson, half-panic, asks how exactly they will fit.

Then Haji's eyes flick to hers, at once hazy and luminous. Saying, she thinks,  _Don't be afraid_ , without a word. Gently, he takes her hand. Carries it first to his mouth, where he sucks on the fingers, and the palm—a long, lewd, adoring drag of tongue that darts down her body, a heat-bloom of delicious shock.

He brings her hand down. Molds her palm more closely to his length, a sword-grip in reverse. The cadence he sets is much the same. A rapid stropping from base to head, again and again, until her own reflexes surface and take command.

_Lesson four._

In bed, as in the battlefield, both their bodies are primed for fast motion and wordless cooperation. They are seldom flat-footed for long.

As she keeps on, Haji's skin becomes a wilder temperature against hers. His mouth is the same, hot and unrelenting and frantic.

Then he makes his move. Trapping both her wrists, he pins her hands over her head—but it is a gentlemanly restraint she can break easily. He hums down her neck, along her breastbone, nuzzling under her upraised arms to bite the ticklish pits. Saya's breath spangles into giggles. She tries to squirm away. Then he is swooping in for another kiss, a greedy non sequitur of teeth and tongue, until it becomes more a moan than a laugh bubbling from her mouth into his.

_Lesson five._

Taciturn as he is, Haji's touch tells its own story perfectly.

His mouth and hands worship everywhere: the whorls of her ears, the hollow of her throat, the shadows of her clavicles, the cage of her ribs. Her breasts win the most devotion. He frames them in his palms, cool on warm. The way he buries his face between them, openmouthed, says,  _You are so beautiful_. The wet stripes of tongue across the soft undersides say _,_   _I want you._  The careful teeth scraping at each nipple say:  _Please trust me._

Mewing, Saya tries to break down her own sense of him into cognition. But it blossoms first into irregular words like  _Cool_  and  _Textured_  and  _Smooth_ , and then into nothing but a disjointed soup of  _Oh, Oh, Oh_ , that sluices from her brain down to her groin.

Her fingers sink in his hair, tangling in the loosened curls. She tugs when he nuzzles her sloping belly, as if listening avidly to the gurglings inside. His hands smooth with fascination across her thighs, parting them. When he digs his thumbs, not-so-gentlemanly, into the steel hardness of muscle beneath, her eyes flash red and a high raw sound escapes her mouth.

_Lesson six._

Her strongest erogenous zones run parallel to the arterial network beneath her skin. The same spots that ignite her into a defensive frenzy in battle—carotid, brachial, radial, iliac, femoral—transform her body into a surface of liquid sensation at the brush of Haji's lips and fingertips.

And then— _oh_ —he is sinking downward, so graceful, that easy flow of muscle. Holding her by the hips, he burrows his mouth into the moist cleft of her thighs with a hungry sigh. Her legs spasm. Gasping, she half-sits up.

"Don't—!"

Haji's eyes, catching hers, call to mind not slices of sky, but the blue flame of a blowtorch. The sight races up her spine the same way, spitting hot sparks.

"Tell me." He nuzzles the inside of her thigh. "If you want to stop, Saya, please tell me."

"I-I don't—"

She doesn't know what she wants to say. The words are irrelevant, a wash-in, wash-out of sound.  _Devrais-je arrêter?—Je ne sais pas..._

_Lesson seven._

They lapse into French whenever they fight—but apparently also when they fool around. Strange, because it's been ages since French was her default mode of communication. But everything about Haji bypasses the layers of ephemera, to occupy the space where she keeps her first memories.

Her first self.

Shivering, Saya slides her hands through his hair: permission, trepidation. Then suddenly his mouth is  _there_. He drags his tongue across her in a long slow stripe. Wet, sloppy,  _savoring_. It is the softest touch—yet so exquisitely shrill that her mind whites out.

Gasping, almost sobbing, she melts across the mattress. Her thighs tremble, clenching round Haji's head. He presses them firmly back, opening her wide. Sets to lapping, over and over, at that one spot that sends heat flaring across her skin, and from deep inside, until the breath goes short in her lungs and her hips stir and stutter. Within moments it builds into a communicatory cadence. His astonishing mouth: kissing, sucking, licking. Her own body: caught in jerky tremors and escalating cries of delight inseparable from distress.

It's almost too much—a sweetness her nerves don't know how to cope with. Like a touch-me-not, her body keeps folding into itself, resisting.

A leftover of the Vietnam massacre. An awful terror clinging to her psyche.

"Ha-Haji." Panting, she tugs his hair with her one good fist. "Come—come up here."

"Hm?" His eyes, pale and catlike, flash across the slope of her belly. "What's wrong? Am I hurting you?"

"N-No."  _God, no._  "But you could, um. Go in now?"

"Let me bring you off first? It will be easier if—"

She whines. "No, it's too much. I—I want you closer. I want to kiss you."

This seems to startle him. But he hesitates for barely a moment before he climbs across her, openmouthed, sipping up the sweat from her damp skin. Arrives to cup her face in both hands, pressing her own salty flavor back to her in kisses.

It would be mortifying—except her body is twisted into knots of impatience. She wants the main event over with  _now_ : the pain, the mystery, the fuss. Wants them to get to the next part, and the next, until they are a couple, two normal people with no ugly past holding them back.

They break off on gasps. Haji's eyes hold a hungry and helpless gleam. As if he's waiting for her to come to her senses, shove him off with a scream.

She doesn't.

Instead she tugs him closer, so he is braced on all fours above her. His palms—scale and skin—fit themselves to her kneecaps, spreading her wide beneath the curve of his body. Their eyes meet; his face is trapped in unsteady lines of want.

"Saya—?"

"Now— _please_."

Haji makes a noise that is like a throat being slashed; a hitch of breath, a liquid gasp. He doesn't enter her right away. He runs the length of himself along her drenched seam, again and again, the light teasing only stirring her higher, making her shiver and mew. Then he  _pushes_ , not all at once but in slick, short increments—and it's as if  _she_  is being slashed too. Fullness and friction and  _pain_  that is like stars exploding red-hot and awful through her.

The pain that comes from stretching muscles she'd given up on. From breaking open places she'd locked up tight.

A cry forces itself out of her mouth. He stops it with a kiss. His eyes are a short-circuited blue, their brightness anchoring her against the sensations splitting through her.

Carrying her into heat, and agony, and  _life_.

It seems an eternity before he is all the way in. Then it isn't a slash anymore but an ache, filling out every empty space inside her. The corners of her eyes trickle tears. Her mouth is gaspy at the electric shock of connection, the way it leaves her pulsing, paralyzed.

"... _O-oh..._ "

"Saya—are you—?"

"...I-I'm fine."

He kisses her wet eyelashes. "...Your face says otherwise."

"Then s-s-stop staring at me!"

Haji smooths a palm over her hair. He is breathing heavily, a living bridge of muscle and bone poured across her. "I can—stop altogether."

" _No_." It is provoked out of her in a cry; she can  _feel_ , in the knots of tension in his musculature, what the offer costs him. "I'm okay. I promise."

He doesn't call her out on the white-lie. Just stays, perfectly still, over her trembling body. Dark hair spills down around his head, strands caught in his eyelashes. She's never had such a perfect vantage to his face. His gaze is hot, possessed, beautiful as the pages of a solved equation. It  _terrifies_  her.

Or would—if it were anyone but Haji.

Longing shudders through her; she clutches his arms. "Please. Keep going."

Haji exhales a jittery breath she didn't realize he was holding. Then he begins: a gentle rolling rhythm. She folds herself around him, nails skittering down his spine. Too overstretched for pleasure, no matter how slow he goes. She knows the tricks, at least. Breathe in and out. Unclench her hands and thighs. Match the rhythm of her hips to his.

_Lesson eight._

Like a duel or a dance; the steps to sex are surprisingly easy. Nearly second nature, if not instinct.

What frightens her is the escalating sensory overload. The cool gusts of his breaths in her hair. The cool sweat filming his nail-streaked back. The cool slide of his skin against hers. She bites her lip each time he inches slickly out; lets her breath out on an overwhelmed shudder-sob as he sinks back in—hardness and stretch and a splitting burn.

In that claustrophobic moment, his weight isn't a refuge but a trap. She half-wants to shove him off. To scramble out of her own crowded body before it falls into chaos.

 _I can't do this._  It is a scream sounding in her head.  _I can't I can't I can't—_

Then he kisses her.

It gets inside her, water into parched earth. Finds all her negative spaces and fills them with something cool, still, calm. His lips are cool too, and soft, and he holds her head in his widespread hands like a delicate glass bowl he is sipping from. Kisses melting one into the next, each one so precise, yet the total opposite of perfunctory. Each one quieting the high-pitched hum beneath her skin into shivering silence.

Like she is listening, with her whole body, to a language that can only be understood here.

"I love you," he whispers.

Her eyes fly open on a jolt of déjà vu. Through the webbing of hair, his face is the same: cut from another time and place.

The night at the Met, cohering from shards of memory, piercing her consciousness like a butterfly on a pin.

Tears rise. Shivering, Saya folds herself tighter around him, small palms tracing his spine. It still hurts crazily—yet it is the sweetest ache. She'd thought he was lost, hideously, irrevocably, but he is right here and he  _loves_  her, and she dares to think she might be whole enough to love him too.

It is the opposite of what she's accustomed to in her blown-apart life: a blessing.

Mewing, she kisses him again. Works her hips, clumsy and coaxing, until Haji shudders against her, begging with his body. He sinks in heavily, rocking deeper. It shocks a gasp out of her; she bites it down. Doesn't dare spoil this. Not when his expression is such a beautiful twist of adoration. Not when she can feel how close he is getting, radiating her borrowed heat. Not when his kisses lure her closer and closer to her own body, so she suddenly comes home to a place where her arms and legs are folded around him, his motions catching something inside her, a dizzy red blossoming that makes her open like a flower in his arms, her cries speeding up by hitches. And then they are moving effortlessly together to the hot unfurling music of vivace and vibrato, sprezzatura and sex.

An insatiable song of call and response.

By degrees, Haji's calm surface peels away. Emotions flutter across his face like the pages of a songbook. Bliss. Despair. Gratitude. Everything spelled out in alphabets and inkblots.

It thrills Saya. The way his gaze goes so bright the rims of her eyes sting. The way he turns radiant in her arms, the spilling colors of an infrared heat-signature. The way his gasps escalate into hiss-groans as she flexes around him, muscles working beneath the skin until his hips start losing rhythm, sweet and wild. She even likes the wet noises of their bodies, slaps and slickness and that friction that makes her burn differently now—a belly-ache of hunger that spins, spirals,  _spikes_  into a meow of shock that is sister to satisfaction.

_Lesson nine._

Here, or anywhere else, Haji will always embody the elements she's craved for as long as memory stretches, the way someone else wishes for water or shelter or  _home_.

And then Haji's climax surges beneath his skin and leaps out of him, riding on a ripple of taut muscle and a beautiful ragged cry that softens, softens, softens with his entire body, into stillness.

They both tremble as he collapses on her.

Gasping, Saya holds him close. Smooths the juts of his shoulderblades, the ridges of his spine—everything damp with sweat. He is still half-hard inside her, half-crushing on top of her. A moment later, he eases off. There is a shudder at the slow suction of her body emptied of his. She wants to cry at the absence.

But overlaying that is a buzz of joy.

_Lesson ten._

There  _are_  no lessons to sex—to its hellishness and sweetness that reshapes itself moment to moment—that can be useful for next time. Nothing except the ache, too soon, not soon enough,  _for_  a next time.

Sighing, Haji hitches her closer. One leg flung over hers, an arm encircling her, as if afraid she might disappear. Dazed, Saya cozies her head against the column of his neck. Watches the colorful fractals in the mosaic beyond the pearly point of his shoulder: red, green, gold, blue.

A world without change, yet she feels like a stranger in her skin. Stirred-up and heat-soaked and just.  _Strange_.

Until Haji's kiss seals her back in her bones. "...Forgive me, Saya."

"Mmm? What for?"

"Hurting you." His gaze shades, self-reproachful. "I was too hasty."

"Sssh. That was perfect." Sweet and scary and hurtful—yet perfect. And more perfect still: twined together and trading whispers in the dark, like a normal couple. She flushes all over. "It's almost like—I can still feel you inside me. Everywhere. And now it's like... I don't know. Like I used to feel after a high jump. Like something really good has happened."

"I am glad." He swallows. "I feared that—"

"What?"

He kisses her eyelids—first one, then the other. "I feared... I was daydreaming you."

The simplicity of his confession deepens her flush. Reminds her that Haji trusts this new reality as little as she does. Their ugly past crowds in too darkly.

But they have this moment. A chance to go forward.

Burrowing closer, she kisses the scar along his throat, where his pulse ticks. His cooling skin has a saltine, mouthwatering tang. It suits him nearly as much as soap and rosin. Her fangs tingle. She has a sudden visceral image of burying her teeth deep into his neck, the salty richness of blood flooding her mouth—no daydream, but a Queen claiming her due.

 _Stop_.

Bloodlust would be an obscene interloper in the shelter of his arms. Here, now, she wants to keep the two halves of herself—girl and monster—as separate as Venus from Mars.

Then Haji asks: "Thirsty?"

She jerks, then relaxes. He means water, not blood.

"I'm fine. Don't you dare move."

She cozies her head under chin. Shivers as his cool hand finds its way down her body, nestling between her sticky thighs. The gesture startles her—it is so possessive and intimate. A reminder of the easy connectivity between their bodies that goes even beyond lovemaking.

"I can't believe... this was our first time," she whispers. "It doesn't feel like it. More like something that's always been true."

Haji nuzzles her hair. "I would have held off longer. Given you time to get used to—"

"To what? Us? I think over a century's wait is long enough." She tips a kiss to his lips. Draws back, a little, to fix him with a soft burning stare. "Please. Don't erase that. I wouldn't want to, any more than I'd erase our first kiss. I was so sure... it'd be our last."

"Forgive me, Saya. If I could have returned to you sooner—"

"You would have. I know." She pouts into his skin, half-shy, half-sulky. "I'm still mad at you though."

"How do I make it up to you?"

"Kisses are a good start. You give tasty kisses."

A wry smile lights his face. "Do I?"

"Mmhm. Also: tingly. I'd ask how you got so good at them, but—"

He kisses her. The touch makes her think of the balms sold in old herbalists' shops; something cool yet inflaming, glittering as it sinks into the skin.

It is a few moments before she can speak. "There," she breathes against his parted lips. "That's better. Now I'm just... grumpy."

He kisses her again. "And now?"

"...Dis—disagreeable."

"...What about now?"

"...Now—mmm." Her heart flutters in her chest. The kiss is dark and sweet and sultry and seems to melt through her bones, leaving her like a spill of molasses in a bowl. Rocking closer, arms and legs encircling him, she is half-ready to begin this again. Ready to do it as many times and as many ways, until she owns this new reality as easily as her skin.

Haji manages to soften the kiss at the last moment: tender, lingering. Draws back to whisper against her lips, "...You should sleep."

"I'm not tired."

He smooths the tangled hair from her brow. "Perhaps so. But if you keep letting me touch you..."

"And if I do?"

His eyes darken. He takes her good hand and brings it to his groin. The warning is implicitly explicit.  _Don't start something you can't finish._

Saya shivers. There is excitement, and uneasy awe, at feeling her effect on him. Awe too, at this dimension of Chevaliers that had never occurred to her before. They heal in the space of heartbeats. They are never weighed down by exhaustion or sleep. Yet she'd never imagined that those powers had uses beyond the battlefield.

Or is that nothing to do with Chevaliers at all—but with Haji's appetites as a man?

She shivers again as he looms close, the full glow of his eyes shining on her.

"I mean it," she whispers. "I-I want us to do this every night. Every night for the rest of—"

_For the rest of our lives._

Except she is only here for three years, give or take. Three years, barely half a handspan ... how must that time seem to him? An eyeblink. One moment she is here. The next she is gone. While Haji remains where he is,  _semper fidelis, semper solus_ , eternally young and beautiful but with no one to share his existence with.

_It's not fair._

Furiously, she kisses him again. His weight, half-poured across her, is cool and heavy, but comforting too. A long bony quilt, with his mouth like the best drink of water.

"Every night," she repeats, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses down her breasts, soft nuzzlings of gratitude. "Or evening. Or afternoon. Or— _ah_!—f-f-forever."

He lets her nipple go with a lazy  _pop_. "Forever sounds good."

"If I could, I would. Y-You know that, right?"

"I do, Saya. Please don't think of it now."

"I try not to. Just—" Her throat clots. "You promised earlier, that you'd never let me suffer alone. I'm sorry I can't do the same for you."

"Ssh. This is a poor line of pillow talk."

" _Pillow_   _talk_?" Giggling, she traces his scarred cheekbone with a fingertip. "Is that what we're doing?"

"Or failing to." He catches her finger between his teeth. "There are better ways to pass the time."

"Like what— _ohh_!"

His hand starfishes lower between her thighs. Fingers slipping in, gentle, instantly slick. Her breath hitches. But his touch is tender, mindful of her soreness. She shivers as he begins a whispering caress, his thumb a slow circling where she is swollen and exquisitely sensitive.

"H-Haji..."

"Sssh. Please let me." His eyelids slide down a notch, turning his expression at once ravening and adoring. "You truly are loveliest this way, Saya."

"Wh-what...?"

"Forgetting yourself. Let me give you that, if nothing else."

_If nothing else...?_

She wants to ask what he means. But his fingers are working their magic, making the tension unbutton from her body, her joints unzipping into erotic languor. She nearly squirms away; it's too unbearably good and makes noises catch rawly in her throat. But Haji is too quick a study, his fascination for her too apparent, his touch too articulately stirring up desires that, in self-denial, she'd kept trying to bleed away into the parched expanse of the war.

Except it seems, like blood, they will keep flowing beneath her surface until she expires.

A hot ache spreads through her mending wrist. Her whole body begins doing a tense undulant dance to his touch.

"Ha-Haji, I—"

"Let it happen, Saya."

His fingers, cool and rough-tipped, become a crooking pressure inside her, thumb teasing with wet sparky flicks that make her rock into him urgently. Her own sounds sound to her like the mewls of an anguished tiger-cat, escalating to a certain pitch, up and then down, so by the end she is voiceless and nearly senseless with her pleasure, well past the verge she allows herself anymore with her own fingers. Shocks of white-hot begin crashing through her, an ink stain spreading in inverse behind her closed eyes.

Something she has felt before. Something she has to get away from.

" _Please_ —I—I can't—"

Except she already is. A wild tremoring gust from the depths of herself, her own high strange cry cutting through her ears like a Valkyrie call. As it shakes through her, she bites hard into his neck. Blood blossoms bright on her tongue. Haji's groan vibrates through her—desire overridden by blind savage  _need_.

Abruptly a vision layers itself over her.

A slither of darkness. A glint of reptilian blue eyes. A hiss right in her ear:  _Saya_.

Terror chews apart the threads of bliss. She wedges her hands between their bodies. " _No! No_!"

Haji obeys almost before the words leave her mouth. "—Saya? What's wrong?"

She is already stumbling out of bed. On her feet, there is residual dizziness. She sways, wobbly. Doesn't want to be naked, not when it suddenly feels like something dark and winged is swooping for the back of her neck. But there is nothing there.

Haji rises. "Saya—?"

"I-I need to be alone."

Scooping up her fallen clothes, she races to the bathroom. But she can feel him watching her.

Inside, the stark white tiles seem to echo her distress. In the mirror, her eyes seem cored too deeply into her skull, glinting red between the tangle of her hair. She stares in disorientation.

It feels as if her features are unfamiliar, recombining to be another person. Her eyes blue as arctic sky, her voice dancing up Saya's spine like icy butterflies.

 _Diva_?

Her pulse skids in her chest; she forces herself to breathe.

Turning on the faucet, she splashes her face with cold water. Outside, she can hear Haji moving around in the bedroom: stripping off the coverlets, fetching fresh sheets. Thinks, with sick regret, that she could be folded dreamily around him right now, if not for the minefield beneath the waters of her psyche, the triggers as hidden from her as creatures at the bottom of the sea.

Her clothes are piled on the floor. She fetches something from the pocket of her dress.

A bundled-up handkerchief.

Slowly, she unwraps it. Inside, the misshapen stone resembles red quartz, its sharp angles winking in the light.

After the Met bombing, it had always remained with her. In her backpack at school, next to her hospital bed during IV drips, in the pocket of her jeans at the supermarket, in the jewelry box by her bedside at night. When her Long Sleep crept in, she'd placed the item in a sealed case under the floorboards of her room, where it'd sat for ...how long?

Over thirty years. No-one had bothered to poke through her room: not Kai, not Diva's twins, not Red Shield, not even Haji.

She cups the glittering red stone. It is warm from her palms, rolling weightlessly, a beautiful thing carved from blood.

Diva's blood.

A fragment of her twin, before the Met was blown sky-high.

_Come with me, Saya..._

Abruptly, her knees give out. Crumpling to the floor, she breaks into sobs. The unforgiving edges of the stone cut into her palm. Blood drips across the tiles, as if the rock itself is alive.

"Saya?" A shadow passes over the pencil of light where the door doesn't meet the jamb. "Saya, please let me in."

" _Leave me alone_!" she shrieks, tear-streaked face buried in her arms. " _Please_."

Regret hangs in the air. But Haji obeys.

   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who turns down orgasms to angst over a crystallized chunk of their archnemesis?
> 
> Saya, that's who.
> 
> Chapter 5 will, once again, be slow in coming. Expect it to fall some time toward the end of June! Hope you guys enjoyed, and feel free to leave critiques or suggestions about how this tale could be improved! Feedback is my (least harmful) drug of choice! :)


	6. Time & Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 is up earlier than anticipated, so I'm posting it! Honestly, I'm trying to churn out as much content as I can before August gets here, because that's when my spare time becomes as scarce as toothy, toothy hens! Keep your fingers crossed for me guys! Also a huge thank you and much love to all the comments and critiques y'all are sending me - on ffnet, ao3 and tumblr alike. I take all the suggestions and questions very seriously as I craft this particular tale.
> 
> Speaking of which - remember that weird monster thing in the cave in ch: 2? Yeah, I forgot all about him too. But he's back, and up to no good. It's going to be an effort to coherently mesh his storyline with Saya's because the two won't converge until much later in the fic - to disastrous results. This plot is very much a slow-burn, and heavily character-centric, so I constantly have to keep the overarching theme in mind. Let me know if I lose direction or traction as we go forward!
> 
> Reviews are much appreciated and will be gobbled up like tasty, tasty cookies! :)

_CLASS CONFIDENTIAL_

REASON: B3, 1.2 9(a)

DECLASSIFY ON 01-01-2060

MEMORANDUM FOR ALL PERSONNEL

-FORWARDED MESSAGE-

FROM: C****** A********

SUBJECT: PROJECT EPSILON

Test Subject 6. Batch RD-947

Age: 66 Years. Male.

Subject escaped during transfer to isolation clinic on 09/13/2037

CAUTION: Subject is considered extremely dangerous. To be intercepted at first sighting.

* * *

FROM: J***** T*******

TO: C****** A********

SUBJECT: Re: PROJECT EPSILON

For fuck's sake. Use SOP. Quarantine island. Detain any and all residents going in and out.

* * *

FROM: A*** P***

SUBJECT: Re: PROJECT EPSILON

We have three Chiropteran Queens in the neighboring island. Three Chevaliers. Suggest neutralizing escapee before the situation escalates. We don't need Red Shield sticking their noses into this. 

* * *

FROM: C****** A********

TO: A*** P***, J***** T*******

SUBJECT: Re: PROJECT EPSILON

The specimen is dead. Body has been retrieved from Mangrove Swamp.

Critical alert over. All units stand down.

* * *

FROM: A*** P***

TO: B***** T*****, J***** T*******

SUBJECT: Re: PROJECT EPSILON

We've got bigger problems. Did you receive the memo about the dead guards?

Subject 6 did not kill them.

That was the work of something else completely. 

* * *

720 Yonashironohen

Uruma-shi, Okinawa-ken 904-2307

Japan

 _Thirsty_.

The gibbous moon is a low-floating specter between dark clouds. Wind skates through the palm trees, their leaves swaying beneath a glowing red sky.

A man stumbles through the cover of the woods. His bare feet squish through congealed mud. Bundled into a threadbare blanket, he may as well be part of the wilderness—glittery eyes and skittish movements, a wild animal coaxed out by the monsoon.

In the gloss of moonlight, his body is a stark delineation of skin and bones. Unsightly extrusions ridge the curve of his spine; his knees and elbows are knobbled as if with excess joints, rotating at strange angles. There is a jaundiced tinge all over his skin—except for the sunken pits of his eyes.

They glint the opposite color as the sky. Neon blue.

He'd stolen the blanket from a rubbish heap along the outskirts of the island. The weave reeked of smoke, crawling with fleas. But it kept him warm—and best of all,  _hidden_ —as he'd stumbled through empty roads and overgrown forests. Not lost, but searching.

Scavenging.

 _Gods_ , he is so thirsty. At a derelict park, he'd found an outdoor water spigot. It was pitted with rust; when he'd turned it on, the water trickled out dark and tepid. He'd drunk it with cupped palms, delirious with relief. It tasted coppery, metallic. But its aftertaste only whetted his thirst.

He doesn't know how long he'd crouched there, gulping the sloshing water. His belly felt like it was full of lead. He'd thrown some up, taken huge shuddering breaths, and kept drinking.

Nothing slaked his thirst. It was like there was a sieve inside him: no matter how much water he was filled with, it kept trickling back out.

 _Thirsty_.

Near the roadside, thirty miles toward the closest town, he'd spotted an oversized feral cat. It was gnawing the carcass of a bird, blood-speckled feathers strewn across the glittering tarmac. Mesmerized, he'd crouched behind a clump of bushes to watch.

After his long imprisonment, the cat was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Its sleek body glowed with heat. Under the dirty bristling of fur, he could practically taste its blood surging.

Instinctively, he'd lunged before the animal could leap away. Its claws had left hot streaks across his arms and face. But he'd barely noticed. Beneath the funk of its hairy coat, the cat's pulse throbbed out for him. He'd sunk in with his teeth before he could stop himself, skin splitting around his fangs like taffy, hot blood filling his mouth.

Something buried in the recesses of his mind cringed in irritation. This thing was  _beneath_  him. A meager offering to one who had been weaned on the blood of—literal—babies and virgins.

But the rest of him kept drinking and drinking. The ache of his thirst subsided—but barely.

Now, he lurches through the woods, shivering in the soiled blanket. His mind—whetting itself to cruel sharpness as the hours pass—assures him the thirst will ease soon. Having escaped from the cave, from that long, long sleep, he will assert his rights in this strange new world.

Resume his proper place.

The blood he'd snatched up from those two men helps. It flows from his veins to the tip of his tongue, language and knowledge an infuriating puzzle before everything clicks into effortless certainty. His brain is animated with words and facts not his—yet serving him perfectly.

_Car. Highway. Apartment. Electricity. Airplane. Cellphone._

All of it easy to grasp with his mind's fingertips. To turn over and pore at until the alien becomes the known.

But overlapping those thoughts, overriding them, is a wild compulsion that slowly seizes his muscles.

There is a town nearby. With humans.

Hot, live, delicious humans.

Fantasies drift through his head, a carousel of gore. A leaping jugular vein scented like strawberries, the blood tart and sweet on his tongue. The curve of a breast, plump as a dumpling, stamped in oozing red half-moons. The trickledown of veins on the inside of a wrist, leaping like fiery copper against his teeth and tongue. Each image mouthwateringly vivid, breathtakingly obscene.

_So thirsty._

Head tipped back, he stares at the red curve of sky. It is like a river of blood. So easy to imagine lifting his arms, flying right up into its sweet shimmer—like plunging into a waterfall, only in reverse. He could slurp up the entire stretch of redness, without leaving a drop behind. It still wouldn't be enough to satisfy his thirst.

Where can he get more blood?

Dragging himself through the tangle of trees, his ears buzzing with mosquitoes, he wonders:  _Is she still alive?_  He can't sense her presence anywhere. The familiar vibration at the base of his spine—to fight, to fuck, to feed—whenever she is close is mercifully absent.

Yet there is something else. A sort of echo of her power, her life-force. Impressions of a girl—dark hair and tanned skin and red, red eyes—pinwheel through his mind.

_Who—?_

Beneath his bare foot, something crunches.

Blinking foggily, he stares down. It is a silvery wrapper, sticky with dark sweetness, ants crawling across it. It smells like honey, but sharper. A leftover human treat? (No— _chocolate_. In plastic foil.) Ahead, through a zigzagging gap between the trees, a light glows. It is not moonlight, or the winking of fireflies. The light is different, cold and harshly artificial.

Lightning in a jar?

(Electricity).

Stumbling toward it, he finds the trees sloping into a clearing. There—a small, low-ceilinged house. There is a rusty metallic shape parked in its pebbled milieu. (Car) An orange sphere and a jumble of assortments, beneath the awning of a makeshift shed. (Basketball, rollerblades and a pink bicycle.) The light pours in through a window. Inside, he sees a gleam like white ice. (Kitchen tiles.) A middle-aged woman chopping vegetables.

The entire scene is dizzyingly inviting. A human man, in his place, might stumble to door, bang with his fists and howl for help.

Not him.

The emotion expanding his heart isn't happiness. It is a dark, animalistic greed. At last, the nightmare of his isolation are over.

Soon, he will be in possession once more. Of himself. Of the place. Of the time.

 _Thirsty_.

Somewhere to the corner, a giggle. Craning his neck, he sees a girl. (A middle-schooler—the pleated skirt in navy blue plaid gives it away.) She smells of candy and roasted peanuts. A sparkly yellow contraption (cellphone) is pressed cozily between her ear and shoulder; she chatters happily with someone on the other end, her back turned to him.

The humid breeze carries the intoxicating throb of her heartbeat.

 _Thirsty_.

He cannot help himself. He doesn't want to. He creeps closer, and his body—dappled by the moonlight that falls from the stirring treetops overhead—begins to melt and lengthen, transforming with an excruciating crunch of bone and cartilage and skin. He can feel the teeth crowding inside his elongated jaw, the incisors piercing gums in bone-white needles.

The blood-thirst is incredible, suffusing each breath. It is as if the girl was placed there purely to satisfy him.

_Thirstythirstythirstythirstythirstythirsty._

She never sees him, or realizes he is there—until he leaps and snatches her up from behind, fangs sinking into her neck. The blood is boiling-hot and sugar-sweet. He swallows without pause, her helpless cries rolling around in his skull, cold marbles of awareness that crunch to pieces beneath the weight of his maddening appetite. With every gulp, it is as if his disorientation unspools, faster and faster, leaving nothing but perfect instinct behind.

There is only this. Heat and heartbeat and hunger. The tastiest drink of his life.

It doesn't stop until he has drained the girl dry, her small body ticcing and twitching in death-throes. He drops her then, fangs stained in blood, nerves and muscles alight with it.

Behind him, a porch light snaps on. The door creaks open. There is a  _scream_

Turning, he sees the middle-aged woman. Rigid with horror, both hands clapped to her mouth.

A blood-fruit dangling from a tree. Warm. Overripe. Ready to be bitten.

Roaring, he lunges at her with preternatural speed.

* * *

The sound of Haji's cello is a silken lilting in the otherworldly half-light of dawn. Or is it evening? Some days she can't tell the difference. The sun shimmers orange along the horizon while the moon floats in its western altar like a gloomy bride, veiled in fragile silver clouds.

Blinking groggily, Saya jerks her gaze from the stained-glass window. At her bedside, the green digital numbers on the clock read 7:16 AM. There is a waft of coffee drifting through the air. Her stomach, pining pig, oinks.

"...Up. I'm up."

Her body feels like a rusted automaton as she drags herself out of bed. A dull ache spreads through her thighs and her pelvis—the effect of stretching muscles unused to the work. Head throbbing inside the confines of her skull—the effect of either too little, or too much sleep.

Since her Awakening, her diurnal patterns are crazy. Always jerking awake at the tip of dawn, yet late evening finds her dozing heavily as a bat nestled in its cote. Her dreams—asleep or awake—are always so hideously vivid.

She'd clutched to the belief that the traumas would fade with time. Sheltered by the circle of  _Family, Home, Haji_ , she'd hoped to dispel the darkness inside her. Certainly hoped it wouldn't follow her into the bed of a man she trusted so completely.

Hadn't she, in rare nights since her Awakening, sailed to the shores of sleep without a single ripple of distress? Woken, with a smile, from dreams where her universe was no different from the real one: just as blissfully soft and safe.

She'd dared to think, in those moments, that she was  _free_.

Funny how that works. How one little panic-attack can cut those illusions to shreds. Remind her that the past is always hopelessly tangled around her, twisting and tugging in ways she can't even imagine.

Reminding her what she owes, and what she is still paying.

The red stone is wrapped in handkerchief again. She tucks it under her pillow with care. She doesn't carry it with her everywhere. But the impulse to touch it is omnipresent. It intensifies or fades, depending on if each day is better or worse than others.

Yesterday was—and then wasn't—a good day.

The music pouring through the air is like the blooming sunlight. Drifts of golden transience, both melancholy and breathtaking. Through the window, she can see Haji, settled on a bench at the patio. The cello, her old Stradivarius, is all glossy brown curves in the twilight.

The sight of it is nearly as beloved as Haji himself—a nostalgic fragment torn from another time.

His pale fingers dance numbly across the strings, the bow flashing as he coaxes out a bright rise and fall of notes. So crystalline and pure, an ecstatic wail she feels in every fiber of her body. Then dropping, darkening, the way dusk empurples the blue sky, the fall so natural, so deep, full of secrets barely told.

In the diffuse orange glow, Haji's face and hands are a pale gold, dark hair swept like wings across one scarred cheekbone. A familiar, nearly  _necessary_  sight in the war—yet the wistful fascination welling up inside her is completely new. She still wears last night like a heavy perfume on her skin. Every muscle like taffy, a hot throbbing soreness between her thighs.

Hyperaware, heat-stirred, greedy.

 _Mine_.

Ownership is an awful word to apply to a person. Yet, watching Haji, her blood sparks with a possessiveness equal to what she feels for her sword. Another extension of her body, sharp and smooth and utterly dangerous.

Utterly imperative to her survival.

_So why did you push him away last night?_

Shame suffuses her. God, everything had been so  _perfect_ —until she was caught in a grip of terror so total it was paralyzing. It floods back now, the physical sensations of the vision, of her body besieged, out of control.

_What was that?_

Poor Haji—what must he have thought? That it was his fault?

No wonder he is always so reticent about touching her. She is volatile as a cut power-cord, no matter how she tries to hide it.

Nothing since her Awakening is what she'd expected. Least of all herself.

The tears seep out fast. But it is a short squall, as involuntary as breathing. She is growing used to these disconnected fits of sadness. They don't slow down her day-to-day routine. Not in the war, and not now.

Careful not to jostle the drapes, she jerks away from the window. Retreats to the bathroom, where she runs the shower as  _hot_  as she can stand.

Maybe the heat will melt her strangeness away. Re-situate her in the rightful time and place.

Wherever that is.

* * *

Downstairs, the villa has a breath-held hush, like a chapel of solitude.

Slowly, Saya drifts around the space, breathing it in. Wood polish and cleansers. Old spice. Leather. Rosin. Paper. On a davenport are crumpled linen shirts and jackets. The corner étagère is piled with books, and glasses smudged red with wine. Here and there are stubs of candles.

The place smells strongly of Haji; no one else has stayed here beyond a stretch of days. Yet everywhere, there are signs of visits from Diva's twins, from Kai. An age-stained poster hanging at a corner wall: Bart Simpson, squinting suspiciously out a window, under the caption  _He's Becoming Isolated & Weird_. A mug, obviously a gift from the girls, reading in bold print:  _Real Men Play Cello_. A set of exquisite knives crafted from white steel, with lacquered sheaths decorated in red dragons, and the name of the swordsmith,  _Yoshikazu Ikeda_ , stamped in silver at the bottom.

Her favorite room, she's long-decided, is at the far-corner. She creeps there now, switching on the lamp. In the muted glow, lacquered instruments shine: an incredible string orchestra. Gleaming curves of cellos and double-basses. Delicate violins. To the left, a grand piano. A lyre, a lute, a harpsichord. Everything seems embroidered into the room, a mellisonant tapestry.

She likes looking at the instruments. They are leftovers of unique chapter in Haji's life. He seldom talks about it. But she's pried the details from Kai, and Diva's twins.

After her Long Sleep, it took nearly five years for Haji to heal until he was capable of clawing himself out of the charred rubble of the Met. Arriving to Okinawa too late, he had thrown himself into Chiropteran hunts with Red Shield—and into his music.

To hear Kai, he'd carried his cello everywhere, playing in the parks, at stations, at schoolyards, in the bathtub (Haji denies that last part).

He had also become a quietly hands-on presence in the twins' lives. Not out of duty—but because the war had taught him that distance protected nothing. It only cast you adrift at the edges of sanity.

From the twins' stories—and rare snapshots—Saya has learnt about their experiences under the care of two men, whose knowledge of children could've fit the head of a pin, with enough space leftover for a dancing troupe of angels.

Solitary was Haji's default mode; Kai was still brash and short-fused. But they were both ready to learn.

From Kai, the twins picked up everything about motorcycles, from catwalks to popping wheelies. From Haji, everything about edged weapons, from making  _tanto_  blades whirl like fans to dodges and feints with swords.

Domestic chores were allocated in a similar fashion: Kai packed their lunches; Haji picked them up from school. For birthdays, Kai would bake cakes, throw parties, take the twins to carnivals; Haji would send postcards from whichever part of the globe Red Shield was exterminating Chiropterans. When the twins were in high school, they would go crying to Kai over heartbreaks, to be plied with hair-ruffles and gruff advice and  _mochi_  ice cream; they would go to Haji, more rarely, if they needed someone's leg snapped.

In photographs with the twins, Saya watches the personalities of both men shine through. Kai speaks physical affection the way George did—as a fierce, fluent first-language. Never are those three caught together when Kai isn't grinning or tussling their hair or hugging them. Whereas Haji is always a step removed. Always dutifully holding their hands as children, or overlooking their antics as teens, but with the watchfulness of a sentry as much as a guardian.

A Chevalier protecting two Queens.

It explains why, when the twins first began accepting Chiropteran-hunting missions with Red Shield, Haji always accompanied them. It was during one of these missions, in the heart of Vienna, that Haji had been playing the cello in the open streets—a series of rapid-fire concertos culminating with Prokofiev's ascendant  _Sinfonia Concertante_.

A renowned talent scout, slack-jawed with awe, had flagged him down afterward. Deaf to Haji protestations, he'd inked the  _Undiscovered Prodigy_  to a contract on the spot.

Haji's rise was, to borrow a phrase from Kai,  _Straight outta the fucking Twilight Zone_. He became a key player in the  _New Viennese Philharmonic_ , arguably the most renowned orchestra in that era. He embarked on a cross-country tour across Europe. "A modern-day Luigi Boccherini," the Guardian raved. "He combines the smooth crispness of modern recordings with the rigor of a perfectionist or a madman: faultless tempo, intonation, bowing and phrasing!" gushed the New York Times.

Haji performed in Old World stages like Salzburg, where Mozart first played, and Köthen, where Bach once held the esteemed position of Capellmeister. He rode a wave of adulation into France, Finland, China, Australia, North and South America, playing in glittering halls with sumptuous acoustics, where waitlists stretched out for months and tickets were auctioned on the dark web.

Diva's twins have shown Saya a few Youtube videos of the surreal era. Haji seemed so pale and coolly-collected in the footlights' brilliant glare, a beautiful apparition descending on stage. His scars, which should've been jarring on such a fine fresh face, merely lent him the air of an old sculpture that had weathered the storms of loss.

And as he played—Beethoven,  _Cello Sonata No. 3_ —flowing from allegro to scherzo, the magic materialized with such intensity, it seemed to ricochet in glittering force off the honeycombed ceilings and polished wooden floors.

Watching him, Saya felt as if she were witnessing a master in his element, at once exalted and terribly lonely at the pinnacle. Sometimes he responded to the applause with a jaded blue glance; other times, he seemed so in thrall to the melody he forgot everyone completely.

The aloofness, whether he intended it or not, was the perfect formula. Audiences worldwide were irresistibly drawn into his orbit. His mysterious  _je ne sais quoi_  was fitting: the secrecy born to celestial bodies in eternal flux.

That was twelve years ago. At their height, the New Viennese Philharmonic had sampled both Renaissance and contemporary pieces (everything from  _D'où Vient Cela Belle_  to  _Bad Romance_ , according to the twins.) No other ensemble could perform the avant-garde with the same graceful panache as the classical. Their first album had sold over 21 million copies. Their devoted fanbase stretched all the way from Ontario to New Delhi.

Then, inevitably, tragedy struck. Two of their violinists were killed in a car crash; their conductor dropped dead mid-performance of a heart-attack; their volatile virtuoso of a pianist succumbed to a heroin overdose.

The ensemble disbanded, not suddenly, but piecemeal, an erosion by forces as unexpected as the ones that first brought them together.

Haji, for his part, melted to grateful semi-obscurity back in Okinawa. Nowadays he was the Rock Star professor at the Okinawa Prefectural University of Arts, holding seminars and workshops for aspiring musicians, sometimes collaborating with the University of Hawaii at Manoa, or flying on tours to lecture at the UCLA. More rarely he performed with old  _Philharmonic_  bandmates and recent protégés at the likes of Tokyo's Suntory Hall, New York's Juilliard ChamberFest, or London's King's Place—but he shunned interviews and seldom posed for photographs.

His perplexing moment had bloomed and faded; he had no patience for cultivating a career out of leftover stardust and wilted laurels.

The whole affair was, to quote him,  _As pleasant as being impaled through the ribcage_.

Saya smiles around a swell of wistfulness.

She is glad, in her absence, Haji had carved a niche for himself—with her family, in Life. She was so afraid, during her Long Sleeps, that he'd become likewise cocooned in isolation. It was a quality both she and Haji shared: melting away from the world, thriving in distance that sustained them not as a refuge, but as stasis.

Haji, always pragmatic, broke the habit first. But Saya can't bring herself to follow.

Not yet.

Settling at the grand piano, she lays tentative fingers across the keys. She feels like an interloper here—even though Haji says the place belongs her, as everything in his life does. Yet she still feels like she needs to ask for permission to pick a bottle from the wine cellar, or pluck a book from the shelves, or sample the cheesecake in the fridge. The villa, like the world outside, is too unusual and intimidating for her to just step into like an escalator drifting smoothly upward.

This is a different realm, created in a time she'd not been part of. In the golden glow of the sun, the space seems twice as unreal, as if the assemblage of instruments are whispering among themselves about this stranger, who will be gone in another few years.

She feels half-gone already, drifting like the dustmotes in the sunlight.

Red Shield's doctors had told her, after her Awakening, that she had posttraumatic stress disorder. Kai knows, and Haji has always known. But it is hard to divine relevance from a dry clinical term, or use it to regulate her sense of detachment.

Some days it is hard to trace dusk from dawn. Other days, happiness from despair.

"Saya?"

Haji is at the entrance. His shadow stretches across the floorboards, a cool stripe of darkness leading home to his body.

"Oh." She jerks to her feet. "G-Good morning."

She'd meant to say it cheerfully, confidently. Instead it is a whisper. Memories of last night skitter hotly through her, leaving her cheeks aglow. She hopes he won't notice. (He always notices).

Haji rounds the piano's edge. Doesn't touch, but looks into her face, his own palely composed. "Did you sleep all right?"

"I—Yes. I did."

_You'd know, if you'd stayed with me instead of vanishing last night._

But that isn't fair. Last night, he'd left because she needed space. Because as her Chevalier, he respects her wishes. Always has. Why does she expect it to be any different when they are lovers?

(Why does she expect sex to impart hidden messages through the skin, any more than it can exorcise ghosts of the past?)

"Are you hurting?" he asks.

"Hm? No, not really." She flexes her arm, newly freed from the cast. "It healed up last night."

"That is not what I meant."

"Not what—?  _Oh_."

Embarrassment wakes a flush along her skin. She nearly shakes her head, because  _Hurting_  isn't the right word. Oversensitive, maybe. Off-kilter. But in the next beat, she nods. After last night's freak-out, maybe it's best not to try for a repeat performance too soon.

Haji's gaze skims over her gently, not missing a single nuance. "Shall I draw you a bath?"

"N-No. It's fine. I'll be all better by tomorrow."

"Have you had breakfast?"

"Not yet." She exhales a shaky laugh. "We forgot to get groceries yesterday. The fridge is practically empty."

Haji smiles. But his pupils, ringed in blue, are a contrariety. Still dwelling on last night's breakdown. "There is enough to fix an omelet."

"Y-You don't have to. Kai and the girls are dropping by for brunch, remember? They said they'd bring  _champuru_  and  _unagi_."

"A snack will not spoil your appetite."

 _Especially since it's the only aspect of you that is predictable,_ she hears—and flushes to the roots of her hair.

"Um...All right."

She follows him to the kitchen. It is narrow and monochrome, with an air of disuse, as if Haji has rarely set foot in there. A wide bay window, its shoji-style shutters slid back, offers a view of the seaside lying glittery blue beneath a multicolored morning sky. She watches him open the fridge, lay out ingredients. Eggs and sausages. Vegetables. Cheese.

It is always a shock, watching him cook. Not as well as Dad—or Kai, for that matter. But the novelty of it—like the newness of  _them_ —tickles Saya in a way that is indescribably girlish. Layered over Haji is still her Chevalier, childhood friend and war-comrade. But also, lately, just  _Haji_. With his untied swirl of hair and his soft buttondown shirt, pale hands expertly wielding a knife at the marble countertop, he is as perfect a knight as any damsel in domestic distress could want.

Except she isn't a damsel.

With the war, she no longer has the capacity to trust blindly, to laugh easily. Haji has always taken the catastrophes of her life—the conflicts, bitterness, ambiguities—in unflinching stride. But he is beginning to grasp—like Saya herself—that she's a walking catastrophe of the heart, too.

She can't love except in conflicted, bitter, ambiguous doses. The war hasn't shaped her for anything else.

He deserves so much better.

"H-Haji?"

"Hm?" He is chopping tomatoes and bellpeppers with freakish speed. "What's wrong? Should I leave the tomatoes?"

"Wha—?  _No_. Tomatoes are fine. I just—" She blushes. "I just w-wanted to thank you. For everything you do for me. In the war, and... Now. I know how much trouble I've put you through."

"Trouble?" Bemused, he sets the knife down. "Saya. What's this about?"

"Nothing. I'm just letting you know how I feel."

Her stomach does a shameful twist at his concerned expression. Is it so hard for him to believe she'd say that?

Then again, should she be surprised?

They have been through the entire red spectrum of hell together. Yet there was always an unspoken distance between them, widening or closing by her choice, not his. So many conversations they should have—then, now—conversations she doesn't know how to begin. How to tell him how much he means to her, how in the past she'd have wanted nothing more than to be with him, if only things were different, if she weren't already so resigned to death?

And now here he is, and her happiness is an unstable thing, diamond-bright one moment, ashy as gravel the next. She can't bring herself to tell him how much she cares for him, when there is so little to show for it.

"Saya?" He touches her cheek. His fingers smell of spicy bellpepper. "What's wrong?"

She ducks her head. His expression, soft and clear-eyed, suffuses her with guilt. She can never truly be equal to that look. Never repay all the agony she's cost him.

"I'm just—I'm sorry, Haji," she says. "I've made you go through so much. It kills me to think about it. I'm not sure I can ever make up for it."

He flinches. "Saya. You have nothing to make up for. Why would you think—?"

_Because I'm always wrapped up in myself when I should be wrapped around you._

_Because every time you try to make me happy, it feels like you're speaking a language I no longer remember._

_Because even after everything we've gone through, I can't reach the place I should be with you. If that place is possible at all..._

She bites back the words. They are already a dark smudge at the edges of her mind, fading into the sunlit present. Which is Haji, now kneeling before her, not like a man about to propose, but a knight swearing fealty to his sovereign. His forehead is so pale and bony above his eyelids. But it gives his eyes themselves that saturated depth.

In the glowing drifts of sunlight, his gaze conceals nothing.

Hesitantly, he asks, "What happened last night? Did I do something to—?"

" _No_." Leaning forward, she puts a hand on his hair. He'd used to hate that as a child, maybe a cultural taboo, buried like knots of barbwire in his spine alongside memories of the family he'd been wrenched away from. But now he presses into her palm, the dark hair sleek as a cat's beneath her caress. "Last night was  _perfect_. I was just—"

 _Just what? My usual unhinged self_?

It will only upset him if she says it in those terms; he is always trying so desperately to keep her happy and whole.

"It was a... a flashback. Or something. It hit me and I had a... big overreaction."

Haji doesn't answer. His half-frown signals, not doubt, but contemplation. "Did I do something to set it off?"

" _No_." Big shake of the head. It's not a lie. It wasn't him but the shocky blankness of her own orgasm. The way it spread her mind and body open to ugly doses of madness. "I barely remember what caused it. It just—froze me up."

"I see."

It's evident he isn't buying it. But he isn't drawing away either. Instead, he considers her for a long moment.

Then, "Are you going to tell me about that rock under your pillow?"

Saya freezes. "Rock?"

"The one you carry around wrapped in a handkerchief. Is there a reason for—?"

Her hand drops as if singed. Suddenly she is caught in an upswing of buzzing nerves.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Saya—"

" _I said no_."

Jerkily, she sweeps past him. Opens the fridge door—almost yanking it off—to stare inside. She isn't looking for anything. She just wants the cool air to bathe her hot face. Behind her, Haji rises silently, watching her with those eyes that always see too much.

"Forgive me. We needn't discuss it if—"

" _Then don't_."

Her teeth grate against sharper words. Anger is so fast to fill her up lately, and it is hard to leave ugly things unsaid.

The kitchen is very quiet. Her ultrasensitive hearing catches the low hum of the thermostat, the  _tok-tok-tok_ of the overhead clock. She hears Haji's heartbeat. Her own. But the sounds only magnify the silence. She wants to cover hear ears and scream.

Instead she shuts the fridge. "I want cereal. Is there cereal?"

Haji seems to understand.

"There is oatmeal in the cabinet. Let me fix it for you."

"I-I'll do it myself."

She stands at the stove with a wooden spoon. The cereal simmers, smoke rising. At her elbow, Haji brews coffee, cracks a pair of eggs against the edge of a bowl, then gets out the skillet.

Despite the cheerful kitcheny sounds, the atmosphere between them is fraught. Guilt rises like bile in the back of Saya's throat. She is already regretting snapping at him, although Haji seems none the worse for it. Then again, he's always been adept at concealment, when it suits him.

He'd concealed his true feelings for her for almost a century.

Quietly, he pours the vegetables and egg mixture into the sizzling frying-pan, sending up a whirl of steam. When it is cooked, he slides it, fluffy and wrap-style, in her plate with crisp strips of bacon, verdant curls of bellpepper and tomatoes with toasty tan splotches.

Everything looks ... surprisingly good. A reminder that he's spent these past decades in the company of humans, learning their tastes and comforts.

Not for himself. For  _her_.

To do right for her, and  _be_  right for her, after her Awakening.

Except he already is. Always has been, in ways she didn't realize she needed. Not until he was gone.

The omelet gives off a mouthwatering aroma. But she doesn't take her place at the table. Instead she goes to him, laying her hot forehead against his cool shirt-back, spanning her arms around him. A wordless apology, wanting so badly to fix things, fix herself.

Be the girl he first fell in love with, not the burnt-out warrior locked in her own strange mind, where every noise is a threat and violence still comes more naturally than kisses.

Except she isn't sure where to begin.

"Haji..."

She doesn't get to finish. He turns, encompassing her in an embrace that is like the cool shade of a willow tree on a hot day.

The fear abandons her at once; she relaxes on a shuddery exhale.  _God_ , she should've done this from the start. Folded herself into his arms, without the catastrophe of speech. Let the secret dialogue sustained inside their bodies speak the truth.

Why doesn't she hug him more often? Every day, every hour? Why leave it as a last resort, for when she's falling to pieces?

Head resting against Haji's chest, she whispers, "I'm making a mess of everything, aren't I?"

"Yes." His bluntness is layered in affection, taking the sting out of his words. "I would have it no other way. You needn't do or say things that you do not feel, because you think they will make me happy, Saya. My happiness is with  _you_. This—your being here, mess or no mess. I will gladly take whatever you give."

His words simmer through her. Flowering with sweetness, yet sharpening her sere-toothed guilt.

Swallowing, she tries for a saucy smile. "Whatever I give, hm?"

He kisses her. Just like that, there is no reason to say anything else. Just a kiss whose heat rises from the balls of her feet to her hairline, so her fears melt into want, and want into need. Her spine melts too, beneath his cool palm—a softening spill of muscle and bone, until she is flowing against him with a swooning sigh worthy of  _Gone with the Wind_.

 _Mine_. It pounds in time with her pulse: irresistible, unceasing.  _Mine. Mine._

In the pot, the cereal bubbles in thick plops over the edge. The air is hazed with smoke.

"Oh no!"

Hastily, she disengages from Haji to turn down the heat. Somewhere in the house, a beep chimes off. Not the smoke alarm, but the audio signal at the entrance. There is the tread of familiar footsteps—more than one.

Deep in the villa, Kai's gruff voice calls out, "Saya? Haji? You guys here? I think something's burning."

Exhaling, Haji doesn't answer. He gazes at her for a long moment. A look of pure hunger that gets inside her, makes her feel achingly alive for the space of a heartbeat. Then he takes another deep breath and tears his gaze away. She watches that layer of polite permafrost descend, burying all the dark things—good and bad—where no-one can see.

It's a skill they've both perfected in the war. Right now, it feels more like a wicked game. A secret just between them.

"There you are." Kai pokes his head in, tailed by Diva's chattering daughters, and their Chevaliers, each carrying fragrant bags of food. "Come and get it! We've even got  _habushu_  from that old liquor store."

"Snake wine?" Haji lifts a dubious eyebrow. "Isn't it too early in the day for—"

Saya is already ogling the bags, emotional epiphany crowded out by gluttony. "Oh! Is there any  _kōrēgusu_  sauce? I can pour it on my omelet...!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saya still prefers snacks to romance...
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! Ch 6 should officially get the ball rollin' and introduce the key players in the fic! Expect family fun and some fluff between Haji and Saya in between the requisite angst!
> 
> Comments and critiques are always welcome!


	7. Snake Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter the sixth! With the intro of Diva's daughters, their Chevaliers, and some Haji-perspective musings on Saya and their future. Everything is fluffy and fun and full of food - which in the Blood+ verse means disaster will soon strike!
> 
> Nonetheless, I hope y'all enjoy! Thank you so much for all the sweet comments and msgs! They make me beam and get me buzzed so I can't wait to start the next chapter!
> 
> Reviews and critiques are forever welcome!

 

Saya laughs.

It's a strange sensation, stirring in her belly like a cry, only less familiar. Slowly, she reinhabits her body, with that heartsick happiness she's growing accustomed to lately, the cracking ache and golden glow of a  _kintsugi_  vase.

But then, laughter always comes easily when she's with her family.

Brunch is over. The plates have been cleaned of every last smudge of sauce, stray rice grain, and edible crumb. Saya is tucking into the technicolor dessert of fruit tarts and mango ice cream, and Kai is pouring rice wine out of a glass jar with a couple of dark vipers floating around in it, to guffaws from her and the twins. Conversation flows in swift Japanese: her preferred  _lingua franca_ in this era.

Since her Awakening, they do this every weekend, impromptu get-togethers that have morphed into a bittersweet ritual.

It takes Saya back to the early days of her amnesia. Living as a schoolgirl in Omoro, Kai and Riku and Dad's laughter brightening a room suffused with the delicious aroma of cooking, so there is an overlap of then and now, a strange sense of occupying two different worlds, two different selves.

Except now, Kai is a grown man in his late forties—lean and sinewy and nearly as tall as Haji. Hair curling past his collar, graying at the temples, but still with hints of gingery-red. Face handsomely angular and creased, covered in stubble. But still the same smile, a sunbeam or a sawbuck rifle in its blinding impact.

All these decades, he's remained stubbornly single, although she's heard from the twins that there were a handful of women, all darkhaired beauties with an air of gloom-and-doom, and none of whom lasted beyond a few years. She's also heard other rumors, about a tempestuous off-and-on relationship with Mao Jahana, now the  _oyabun_  of the Jahana clan—ending in the fireworks of betrayal when Mao chose (instead? at last?) to run off with Akihiro Okamura.

Maybe, she thinks, the war clobbered Kai too, in ways not unlike hers, making it difficult to sustain lasting connections with anyone.

Considering alternative reasons— _could-haves_  and  _might-haves_ —is futile now.

"Don't know what you're belly-aching about," Kai huffs, taking a defiant mouthful from his glass. " _Habushu's_  practically Okinawa's official daytime drink."

"They banned it five years ago. Something about the  _habu_  snake being endangered." Sayuri—the blue-eyed twin, known to family as simply Yuri—spoons ice cream into her perfect red mouth. Always impeccably dressed in high-buttoned blouses and pleated skirts straight out of  _ViVi Magazine_ , her long dark hair is pinned back in a sleek chignon, her voice a lilt of perfect vowels and sumptuous consonants no matter what language she speaks.

Everything about her radiates ice-cool poise and precision—but with a sense that it can dissolve any minute into twinkling delight. In her laughter, Saya sees echoes of Riku, a warmth that turns silver into gold.

Her Chevalier-of-eight-years, Sachi, is cut from the same cloth. The child of an Okinawan club hostess and French career officer, he trained as a sniper with the Fusiliers Marins, before joining Red Shield after a Chiropteran bloodbath in Mayotte. Pale and leanly-muscular, he has darkish hair bleached silvery-white at the tips, and languid hazel eyes under long lashes. Pretty, almost, but with an edge as cool and cutting as crystal.

Around Yuri, though, he is playful, almost puppyish. Lolling against the cushions beside her with easy languor, he riffles the strings of his guitar. As he segues into the first strains of  _Black Magic Woman_ , Saya is reminded of Haji in their Zoo days—a resemblance both telling and amusingly Freudian. It's evident which "father" Yuri imprinted on most strongly in her childhood.

"Their endangered status won't stop wine sales," Sachi says. "The American military enjoy habushu very much. Good, umm, medicinal properties."

"Medicinal properties?" asks Saya.

"It's supposedly an aphrodisiac." The brown-eyed twin, Sayumi (just  _Yumi_ , thanks) gleefully skates the last slice of  _goya_  around on her plate with chopsticks.

The volatile red Oni to her sister's sedate blue, she is all burning-bright attractions: curly dark hair like smoke and a smile like a bonfire. Her voice is Diva's exactly, but husky-edged—an oboe d'amore rather than a haunting windchime. Always dressed in ripped jeans and tank-tops that accentuate an appealing athletic body, there is something of Kai about her too: feisty quips and fighting chops.

But the childlike simplicity of her affections, her warm helpful nature, are all Riku.

Next to her Chevalier, she looks  _tiny_ , her hand swallowed in his big paw. Then again, V (short for Vicente) dwarfs nearly everyone in the room. A former all-Marine boxing champion, he'd joined Red Shield five years ago, the sole survivor of a gruesome Chiropteran attack that wiped out his entire team in Togo—only to be permanently K.O'ed himself after meeting Yumi, or so he jokes.

Physically, he is a creature of pure force: 200 pounds of fast-twitch muscle packed into a hulking six-foot-four frame. Tribal tattoos crisscross the dark brawn of his arms. His hair is a spiky black shock, sideburns converging into a sharp goatee. Yet his manner is boyish, breezy, a just-one-of-the-guys air that Yumi says is camouflage for the big dumb mushball inside.

"Aphrodisiac?" Clinking glasses with Kai's, V knocks his drink back with gusto. "Like what? A love potion?"

"Viagra, more like," Sachi says dryly. "The habu mate for nearly twenty-six hours. Effects on drinkers are supposedly similar."

"You're shitting me, right?" V sounds both unnerved and hopeful.

"Well. A badly-preserved habu could instead cause, umm, necrosis and internal bleeding."

"Huh," V grunts, then shrugs. "Worth the risk." He takes another shot.

"Try it with oysters and raw eggs. Your stamina will hit the roof."

" _Hey_!" Mock-scowling, Yumi pokes a chopstick at her sister's Chevalier. "Quit giving him ideas, Sachi."

"What?" Sachi exchanges looks with Yuri, their smiles near-identical. Butter-wouldn't-melt with a sprinkle of sugar. "I am doing you a favor."

"Your  _favors_  will have me walking like John Wayne on crutches straight into next week."

Groaning, Kai pinches the bridge of his nose. "Jesus! I'm not drunk enough to listen to this shit!"

"Oh c'mon, Kai! We're all adults here!"

"That's  _Dad_  to you, Sayumi."

"Oh  _yeah_..."

" _Yeah_. So keep it PG. Stop embarrassing your auntie."

"Puh- _leeeeeze_." Yumi winks at Saya. "She's older than all of us combined. If anything, she could teach  _us_  how little Chevalier and Chevalière are made."

"Er..." Mouth full of tarts, Saya tries to keep up with the banter.

"Chevalière?" Intrigued, V scratches his stubbled cheek, a sandpaper rasp. "Is that a real thing? Girl Chevaliers?"

Yuri shrugs, licking the ice cream off her spoon. "I don't see why not? Once turned, they'd have the same powers. Plus? They'd be extra-useful for espionage since they're routinely underestimated."

"Point." V wags a knowing eyebrow. "Kinda useless for spawning rugrats with their Queen's sis, though."

Saya expects a cool repartee. Instead Yuri colors up and drops her spoon. Which is odd.

Quietly, Sachi fetches the fallen utensil, but not before shooting V a look. No particular heat, but still a warning.

Which is odder.

He circles Yuri's stylish slenderness in his arms, and she lets herself curl against him with a dreamy half-smile. They remind Saya of two co-conspirators, congratulating themselves over an armful of secret treasure. Across the table, V squeezes Yumi's hand in his large one, the two of them sharing a brief glance of their own: a wistful understanding.

Frowning, Saya glances from one pair to the other. She wants to ask if anything is wrong.

Then Kai irritably calls out: "Hey, Haji! Wouldja sit your ass down? I already told you we'd help clean up later!"

Ruefully, Saya glances at the kitchen. Her Chevalier has finished washing and stacking the serving trays, and is now speculatively eyeing the clutter of their greasy plates at the table.

He always does this toward the tail-end of the meal. It is not out of innate fastidiousness. Rather, he respectfully withdraws, so she is free to be absorbed within her family, absorbed within their warmth and laughter.

Even now, he remains a sentinel. Poised at the edges of the bright Miyagusuku sphere, refusing to come closer than necessary.

Sweet, foolish man. He's reconciled her to life as surely as her family has. If there's anywhere he belongs, it's at her side.

"Haji." She reaches a hand, open fingers a flowering invitation. "Help me finish the ice cream."

A transparent ploy. Haji doesn't eat ice cream. But it isn't the words that matter. It's the imperative notes of her voice, a  _do, re, mi, fa_  of déjà vu, because it's the same way she'd once say,  _Give me my sword_ , or  _Fetch me a pink rose_ , or  _Play the cello for me_.

Except now her sole objective is to have him near.

If Haji is startled, he doesn't let on. Drying his hands, he drops gracefully down beside her. She doesn't dare spoonfeed him the ice-cream. Half-convinced her family already know what she did with him last night; her body a fireball of stymied want, lit up achingly hot and luminous.

Then Haji accepts the bowl from her, and tastes a scoop. His eyes hold a softer glow than usual—and against her will, Saya blushes.

"H-How is it?"

He offers that rare half-smile. For a second she has a giddy sense of being stuck in a vintage 1950s postcard: the schoolgirl making doe-eyes at her dreamy beau over a sundae.

Kai smirks over the rim of his glass. "Since when do you enjoy dessert, Haji?"

" _He do~es if it's Saya's left~overs_ ," Yumi singsongs to the tune of  _A Whole New World_. Yuri takes it up as a duet. " _Or any~thing of Saya's, let's be re~al_."

Haji's spoon clinks pointedly against the bowl. "Is it out of the question that you two finish your meal without talking?"

"Out of the question." Sayumi and Sayuri's smiles for him are childishly smug. It is hard for Saya to watch and not think how he must've been when they were children—quietly firm and fond.

"What if you were bribed?" Haji asks.

"Wiiiiiiith?"

Wordlessly, Haji passes the ice cream bowl over. The twins dig in with triumph.

Watching them, V shakes his head ruefully. "You oughtta let the poor guy eat. He's practically skin and bones."

" _Everyone's_  skin and bones compared to you, Vicente," Kai says, between mouthfuls of his drink. "What the hell did they feed you in the States? Live buffaloes?"

Preening, V flexes a bicep. "Gatorade, avocados and beef burritos."

"And every other calorie-dense meat product on earth," Sachi says, idly strumming his guitar.

"Man, Sachi, you  _are_  a carb-counting hipster!" Yumi gasps, as if confirming an awful rumor.

Sachi lifts a shoulder, guilty as charged, and transitions the chords into  _Bad Moon Rising_.

The music stirs up fond memories in Saya. That was one of Dad's favorite songs, and she and Kai exchange rueful glances of shared recognition. Warm and well-fed, with Haji's cool shape beside her and the mellow rise and fall of her family's conversation lapping at her ears, she is free to drift, unmoored to anything but the moment. Because this moment, and others like it, strung together like pearls on a chain, make the ugliness of the past almost worth the magical present.

Lazily, she lays her cheek against Haji's arm. Her eyes, half-closed, fall on the jar of  _habushu_.

In the amber liquid, the snake is poised with jaws wide open, as if mid-attack. Its skin is an iridescent black, overlaid with a pale pattern of scaling. Deadly even in death—yet so beautiful.

Staring at it, a subspecies of emotion—not fear, but its chilling echo—pinwheels across her spine. She thinks of that strange vision last night. The glitter of blue eyes. The scaly body. The whisper right in her ear, identical in pitch to the Diva-voice she'd heard in her dreams.

_Saya..._

"Saya?"

Blinking, she glances at Haji, then at her hands. She has twisted the silver spoon into a bow.

" _Oh_!"

The knotted spoon clatters away. Haji picks it up and carefully unbends it, concern in the blue orbits of his eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Y-Yeah. Just spaced out for a bit."

Her cheeks flame with the knowledge that everyone at the table is staring at her. Kai's look is understanding and a little sad, Yuri's kind, Sachi's polite and V's curious. Under the table, Yumi squeezes her knee. Memories skitter; the last time anyone touched her knee under the table, it was a Red Shield agent in 1960s London, signaling the approach of a Chiropteran.

Blinking, she glances at Yumi, then manages a smile when she realizes the gesture is pure comfort.

"I'm fine," she murmurs, to nobody in particular. "I just... ate a lot."

"Postprandial somnolence," Yuri nods sagely.

"Postpar-what now?" Yumi stretches with an audible crick of the spine, rubbing her belly mock-tenderly. "You mean the Eatus Fetus?"

"She means  _gochisousama_." Kai downs the last of his drink like a shot, then rises matter-of-factly to his feet. "C'mon. Let's help Haji clear this up..."

In the eddying movements that follow, Saya hangs back until she is once more in command of herself. With slow breaths, dregs of the vision fade.

Quietly, she lets herself observe how her family move around each other in the narrow kitchen, with the same cohesive ease as in a battlefield.

Kai and the three Chevaliers, clearing the table, are engaged in serious debate about the health benefits of  _wasabi_  (well, Haji is just listening). Yet even as they converge on the table, each man keeps a circumference of distance, the body-language of soldiers always readied to draw weapons, to throw blades or evade gunfire.

Conversely, Yumi and Yuri harmonize like magnets of opposite polarities, washing and drying the dishes together between giggles in that special monosyllabic language of theirs. The two are almost a single organism, growing like two lovely blooms from an invisible taproot.

Nothing like Saya and Diva at all.

Or, maybe, a glimpse of what they might've been... if life had been kinder.

This hits Saya in a raw spot; she swallows.

Diva is gone. Yet she is always there, in the blue sparkle of Yuri's eyes, in the crystalline fall of Yumi's laughter, in the living, breathing, eating, dancing, fighting legacy these girls embody. Watching them each moment suffuses Saya with grief, but it is a clean and soothing ache, like a cauterized wound.

The scars will never fade, but you have to learn to live with them.

Saya is still trying.

The twins notice her stare, and offer curious smiles.

Blinking, Saya tries a wobbly smile of her own. She has all the time in the world: to remember, to rage, to regret. But she also has this warm glowing evening, to forget.

It is more than she deserves.

* * *

Night falls in a chill swoop, closing a day of unpacking, music, snake-wine and snacks.

Surf booms at the moon-glossed shore. The world is rich with nocturnal music: mosquitoes humming against the porch screen, moths battering their furry bodies against the lightbulbs, songs of cicadas rising and trebling among the rustling palm-trees.

The gentle gradation of sand leads to the beachhead two hundred yards down. There, Saya, the twins and their Chevaliers are racing across the shoreline.

Haji stays at the edge of the porch, keeping watch.

The air temperature has dropped at least fifteen degrees, but he barely feels the chill. Extremes of cold and heat have never bothered him.

In the war, Saya and he had traversed across the icy wastelands of Oymyakon, braving frostbite and frozen corneas. They'd spent nights in filthy rooms in Caracas where the rusted ceiling fans only stirred the humidity and the mattresses stank of piss. Fought in battlefields in New York swimming knee-deep in entrails, comrades torn to carcasses of revolting variations, the stench so overpowering you recalled nothing of your life before that point: as if you were inhaling and exhaling pure horror.

After the Bordeaux Sunday, it was as if they'd fallen off the slope the civilization, deep into its rotten underbelly. They'd seen the world not just for its ugliness, but for the dirty cogs that kept it spinning.

The place where nightmares bred.

Saya had survived in the depths of those nightmares. Lived and breathed in the eye of madness.

But not without paying the price.

Each year, Haji had watched the war pare her down to something sharper, colder, crueler. More unrecognizable from who she truly wanted to be. Each year, he had sensed the widening split between the fighter and the girl, the avenger and the martyr, until the heaviness of difference nearly broke her to pieces.

Hard as he'd tried to coax her away from the edge of despair, he could never heal the parts of her dispersed to heartbreak.

It was the Miyagusuku family who succeeded, with a warmth that was composed as much of their determination to protect their own as to care for them with pure love. They'd changed Saya more in a handful of years than Haji had in decades of silent service.

More than that, they'd lent  _him_  the courage to give voice to his true feelings.

Impossible to imagine his confession would hold the impact needed, without Kai's well-meaning blow to break it loose. Or to be the sea-change that would rock Saya into reconsidering her death-wish.

Impossible, too, to summon resentment, in the face of that. To do so would mean resenting her survival as well.

Saya  _deserves_  to live. To be loved and happy, more than anyone alive.

He watches as she splashes across the shoreline, salt spray glittering in her hair. Her smile is like moonlight, her laughter carrying the same silvery luster.

The sight locks a thrilling heat in his chest. God, she is so radiantly beautiful like this. Exuding joy, alight with it, a supernova melting across the surface of the night. And as  _fast_  as ever—he watches her blitz down the dunes in a way that nearly breaks the laws of physics.

Sayumi and Sayuri, both seasoned fighters on the battlefield, can barely keep up.

How could they? Saya on a tear is impossible to outrun.

Haji has hoped—as he's hoped often in the past, but never as intensely as now—that Saya might rediscover happiness. Not the exact shape and texture of happiness as at the Zoo, or during her amnesia, but something different, bittersweet but worthwhile.

Watching her dance across the water, delightfully giddy and girlish, it's easy to imagine she's found it. Easy to imagine a different Saya, who is recovering smoothly. Who doesn't stare trancelike into space for hours, or jerk awake to nightmares, or listen for strange sounds in the dark, or subsist on inverted circadian rhythms, or fear her own orgasms, or...

Or carry a shard of Diva's crystallized remains in her pocket.

The real Saya does all these things. Even in her lightest moments, there is something shadowy in her outline.

Haji has spent years on the frontline among fighters. He recognizes the signs of disorientation and repression. Recognizes, too, that the transition from violence to peace is never easy.

He has known men back from war who cannot sleep without a weapon beneath their pillow. It is hard for the body to abandon the reflexes that were once essential for its survival. Harder still for the mind not to align the past with the present, or to envision a future not patterned on early ruin.

_The war is over, but not._

_It will take time for her to heal._

So be it. Saya can take all the time she needs. All he asks in return is the privilege to be  _near_  her. To soak up her laughter, her conversations, her silences, even her tears—as long as she keeps on living for tomorrow.

Catching his gaze now, Saya smiles, her head silhouetted against the gibbous moon. In the translucent light, all her shape is clear through her fluttery lilac dress.

Despite himself, Haji feels his gaze go half-lidded, lingering.

Flustered, Saya spins away. Her face blooms to a gorgeous pink, hands reflexively smoothing down her dress

Caught out, Haji ducks his head—abashment, apology. Hunger, so hot, ceaseless, rises to the surface without warning these days. He isn't sure if he's lost his talent for concealment, or if he is simply growing bolder, more careless.

 _You are allowed,_  he thinks savagely,  _to have sexual thoughts about the woman you love._

In fact, isn't it more disrespectful to install her on a pedestal—to treat her as a one-dimensional saint—than to acknowledge her as a woman? If he cannot accept the intensity of his desires, in the privacy of his own mind, does he have any business acting out even their echoes in reality?

Yet their very intensity is frightening.

Control is bred into Haji's bones. His life is navigated by neither bloodlust, nor libido. During Saya's Long Sleeps, duty was a razor-line cutting through all distractions. Throughout his travels, he'd kept entirely to himself, holding his body as war-fortresses hold their armories. Even his years with the New Viennese Philharmonic— _what utter insanity that was!_ —he'd been caught up in endless concerts, photoshoots, rehearsals and interviews, the fanbase of shrieking women fading to a miasmic blur in the background.

Band-mates had accepted the aloofness as one of his many idiosyncrasies. Most knew that if you wanted to get along with Haji, you gave him sheet-music, and left him to play cello. Alone. If a woman ever expressed interest in him, he wielded that aloofness as a shield. Gave the impression that there was someone—departed? distanced?—whom he could not betray.

The fact that it made him seem twice as attractive was an unhappy side-effect.

Except Saya is neither departed nor distanced. She is  _right here_ —and his gratitude mounts by the hour. After decades of aching to be with her, having her in his arms is both thrilling and frightening.

And last night, making love to her...

 _God_.

It was like dying of wish-fulfillment, and its complete negation. No peace, no promise of satiety. Endless craving, seeping inside out.

 _Be patient,_  Haji reminds himself. And, the golden word:  _Sublimate_.

Saya's bright surface belies the damage her psyche has sustained. She needs time to settle into herself, her life. After decades of denying any aspect of herself not tied to duty, it is impossible for her to wear her skin for a few months and intuitively know how everything works. Especially when she's been so troubled since her Awakening: perpetually high-strung, her gaze gone inward, as if inventorying her bloodstream for landmines, their triggers set off by the slightest word or action.

Last night's meltdown was reminder enough.

_It is my fault._

_I should not have pushed her before she was ready._

It is why Haji is determined—now, more than ever—to keep the physicality at half-speed. Not burdening her with the expectations of an adult man, but bolstering her through the symbolic gestures of a friend as much as a Chevalier.

Comfort, conversation, silence.

It is enough, until Saya begins showing more compelling signs of recovery. The  _How_  and  _When_  aren't for him to speculate. The heart heals at its own pace, and mustn't be rushed.

_And if, once healed, she resolves your presence is no longer necessary...?_

Well. That is not for him to speculate, either.

"So who's winning the race?"

Kai steps onto the porch. The moonlight strikes cold sparks off the two cut-crystal glasses in his hands—one blood, one  _habushu_. As a single parent and a vigilant war veteran, he seldom imbibes more than finger's worth of alcohol.

But tonight, off-duty in every sense, a drink seems natural. Celebratory, even.

On his part, Haji has always been wary of consuming blood before company. But after safeguarding two Chiropteran Queens, slowly seguing them into their nature while ensuring they did not experience the same shame and conflict as Saya, blood-drinking was the least of what he'd accepted as part and parcel of his own life.

He takes his glass with a nod. Wing riffles his long hair: he sweeps it back with his free hand. With Kai, as with the twins, there is no need for the layer of shadow to conceal the scars across his face. None of them have ever stared, not even when Haji first returned from the Met disaster, half his body crisscrossed in ugly cicatrices.

It was how Haji knew he'd been welcomed into the family, without fuss or formality, as much for himself as for being Saya's Chevalier.

"Saya won the first six rounds," he says. "Sayumi demanded a rematch, but lost. Now they are simply chasing Saya around."

"Juveniles," Kai snorts.

He settles on the porch steps, watching the lively quintet with an expression Haji recognizes. Half-wistful, half-affectionate.

It reminds him of the early days: Sayumi and Sayuri as children, playing in the park under their guardian's watchful eye. Even then, the twins were tiny dynamos of mischief. Always crawling into places they shouldn't be, knocking over things they shouldn't touch, feet racing so quickly across the house it's a wonder the friction didn't burn the floorboards.

Over the years, Haji has assumed reluctant co-wardship over them with Kai—only for it to blossom quietly into fondness. He has a dry, good-humored relationship with the flame-tempered Sayumi that would come across as low-level vitriol to a stranger; the girl reminds him so strongly of Saya in her youth that the nostalgia is irrepressible. He is temperate-verging-on-tender with Sayuri, the classic hot-house flower, so particular in her habits and dainty in her manners, and so different from the young women of today—a girl-Riku with Diva's eyes.

In their adolescent years, when the two girls were volatile cocktails of hormones and supernatural powers, needing endless reserves of patience, he was one of the few people who could handle them. (If there was any area Haji excelled at beyond cello or combat, it was caring for eternally sixteen-year-old girls.)

But Kai was the  _real_  parent—solid and rootbound as the ground beneath the girls' feet. Always their favorite; the hero-dad and dynamic playmate rolled into one. Always able to cajole them out of their sulks, comfort them when they were distressed, or show them hand-to-hand skills and melon-carving with the same smiling ease as he taught them how to speak the language of laughter.

The girls were Chiropteran Queens by birth. They shared the surname  _Otonashi_  on the dotted line. But they were Miyagusukus at their core. The bloodline ran thick, and the family held close to its own.

It was why Haji never lived at Omoro, despite the twins' wheedling and Kai's gruff invites. Instead, he'd chosen the villa by the beach. It was within reasonable distance of Omoro. But its isolated location also held an intense appeal to his own private nature.

Over the years, it became a de facto safe-house. Somewhere he could retreat to, when the paparazzi got on his nerves, when the tours were too hectic, when the world felt too outsized, and his memories of Saya too overwhelming.

Yet those same memories kept him from melting into complete solitude. He's done his best to absorb the island rhythms: learning how to string lobster traps, to recognize when a tropical storm would roll in with the accuracy of a Doppler map, how to gather the proper ingredients for Tacorice, the differences between  _Sakishima_  and  _Hime_  vipers. Turning down attractive tenure-track positions in private institutes across the globe, he'd even gravitated to a more modest position here at the University of Prefectural Arts.  _A political statement_ , Kai says: boosting their prestige and offering publicity to what is still Japan's most neglected prefecture.

He teaches full-time, not for the salary he doesn't need but for the pleasure of schooling fresh talent, imparting skills that light up young minds. He's even picked up the native dialect, to the point where he can switch between  _Hyojungo_  and  _Uchinaguchi_  with equal swiftness.

The island is abundant with mysteries and beauties. The people in his small social sphere are unfailingly polite, tolerating his countless eccentricities. But it isn't home.

No place is home, except at Saya's side.

"How is she doing?" Kai asks now.

He means Saya, of course. Since her Awakening—and especially since Saya's accident—he's been tracing her progress with nearly the same intensity as Haji. Always looking at her with bright dots of concern in his eyes, as if she might crumble to pieces.

Haji hesitates. Over the years, he and Kai have established a matter-of-fact camaraderie. It is not the ease of blood-brothers, as they both had once shared with Riku—but close. Still, there remains an orbit of space around their personal lives: a territory zoned against inquiry.

For Haji, Saya is indelible to that territory.

But Kai is her family. Haji owes him the truth, even with the finer points shaved off.

"It is a process."

Kai squints dubiously. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Some days are harder for her than others. Last night, she seemed fine ... then all at once she wasn't. That was a bad day." He watches Saya dance across the glittering shoreline. Her body seems to glitter too: sand, saltwater, sweetness. Against his will, he softens. "Today, she ate everything put before her. Laughed. Shared her ice-cream. Is playing with her nieces. It is a good day."

Kai nods, but doesn't answer. For a moment, both men are quiet, for different reasons.

Then, "It can only get better. Right? She'll be okay."

"Yes." That much Haji is sure of. "Saya can overcome anything. As long as she has her family."

"That includes you, too."

Haji pauses.

Kai is unfailingly kind. But he can afford to be. The points of his life are connected, always, to happiness. Each time, he gets back tenfold what he gives. The twins adore him as a father in all but fact. And he can still restore the glow to Saya's eyes, where Haji's own efforts always feel like sad miscalculations destined for failure.

"I am here to serve Saya. But ..." Haji's voice drops to its most toneless. "Her happiness may be out of my hands."

"Huh?" Frowning, Kai sets his glass down. "What the hell's that mean?"

Already, Haji regrets starting this. But he also feels insufficient to  _keep_  Saya. In the war, he'd perfected a talent for absorbing her woes. Sustaining her joy is another mystery altogether.

"She is happy, when she is around your family, Kai. She forgets herself. Whereas with me, she remembers. The war. The bloodshed. I ...seem to make her cry far more than I make her smile."

Kai says nothing. But Haji can sense the other man's scrutiny. The lines of his face are taut—not with surprise, but sympathy. "I think you're selling yourself short, bro."

"Why?"

"Because all these years, you've supported Saya. Way before she came to us, you kept her going."

"I was fulfilling my duty."

" _Bullshit_ ," Kai snorts, impatient rebuttal to this bleakness. "You helped her because you cared about her. You always have. It's why Saya trusts you more than anyone else. Enough to cry in front of you. She doesn't do that around me or the twins. That's a side she keeps away from us. Something only you get to see."

Haji blinks. He can't think of how to acknowledge this startling observation.

Easy to forget, often, that Kai is more than a messy gym hamper of human habits and foibles, with a headfull of baseball trivia, an almost clockwork tendency to clean his gun every Sunday morning, a ritualistic compulsion to scrub his hands clean before placing a bowl of salt and incense sticks at his household's  _Hinukan_ -shrine, a fondness for morning crossfit and a strong dislike of store-bought pastries.

All of that comprises him, but it is not the actual Kai, who still cuts like a bullet to the heart of any matter with brash directness.

"It's a process," Kai says, echoing Haji's words. "Taking care of her will have its ups and downs. Just like anything else. But I know you won't give up on her. Just like I know she's glad to have you in her life." He sips from his glass, his grip firearm-steady, like his gaze. "You didn't see her after the Met bombing all those years ago, trying to be all normal and happy for our sakes. But every time she thought no one was looking, she'd sit by herself and brood. She never said your name once. But from a clam like Saya, that's practically a written confession."

Haji doesn't know what to say to that. The night chill zips up his coat tails, but he barely feels it. All these years among humans, and just when he believes himself jaded to their ways, they astonish him all over again.

"...When did you become so wise?" he manages, both dry dismissal and deference.

" _Zen for Dummies_. Great book for bathroom reading."

"Evidently."

"That, and a trusty playlist of  _Journey_  songs."

"Now you are being grotesque."

Kai huffs indignantly. "Hey!  _Don't Stop Believin'_  is a classic!"

Haji offers him in that derisive sidelong look otherwise reserved for Nike sock-and-sandal combos, and their wearers thereof. But his mouth is shaped into the subtle lines of a smile.

"Am I interrupting?"

Saya is there, right at the edge of the darkness broken by the bright parallelogram of light from inside the villa. Her hair is a wild corona, skin scented in seaside and sweat. In the chill, a halo of steam rises from her body.

Haji's protective impulses war with the prurient. His eyes want to drink her in, even as his hands move instinctively to shrug off his coat and fold it around her. He gives her the untasted glass of blood meant for him.

She hesitates for a moment before drinking it like a child, cradled in both hands, eyes closed. The earlier games have whetted her appetite. Lately he notices that she wants more blood than usual after physical exertion. Usually, one or two blood-packs suffice. More rarely, like now, she'll take it in a glass, especially in company with the twins.

She has yet to feed from Haji since her Awakening: a distance he can't decide is deliberate or unconscious.

"Just shooting the bull," Kai says, as she settles beside her brother. "What about you? Tuckered out already?"

"Taking a break." She smiles, with a touch of her old spirit. "Giving the girls—" who, alongside their Chevaliers, are sprawled twitchy and shell-shocked in the sand, "—a chance to catch their breath."

Haji smiles, unseen. Huddled together with Kai on the porch, she reminds him of the schoolgirl from decades ago. Innocent as sunshine, but with a lifetime's dark secrets locked beneath her smooth face and bright eyes. Needing only the key of his blood to open the floodgates.

His smile fades.

Perhaps, with Diva gone, she would've been better off if he'd kept his blood to himself. Ignorant, yes, but blissfully free. An ordinary girl, four-fifths erased, but with a loving family, an easy conscience, dreams of a future.

Whereas all Haji had to offer her were the shackles of duty. And now, with the war ended, its brutal scars.

Except he could never keep her willfully ignorant. The unilateral decision to take her memories? Her self? That would be the worst kind of violation.

He is on the verge of withdrawing. Then he catches Saya's gaze, fixed on him in quiet bidding.  _Stay_.

Obeying, he sinks beside her, so she is sandwiched between him and Kai. She twines her fingers with his, fond and possessive. Her heat stirs him in the night chill, a divine fireside.

But it is her smile that blossoms a raw happiness inside his chest.

"You both seem so close now," she says, glancing from him and Kai. "Almost like family. I'm glad."

"Yeah. We bonded over suffering," Kai says wryly. "And I don't mean the war. Not even Buddha could survive the twins without going bug-shagging crazy."

She lets off a laugh. "You don't mean that."

"You weren't around when they were teenagers. It was like Jekyll and Hyde times four. They'd be sassing me one minute, bursting into tears the next. Slamming doors off their hinges and shrieking their lungs out every time they got a zit." He mock-shudders. "Felt like I was living in a nuthouse. Haji could tell you horror stories."

"I hope you will." She squeezes Haji's fingers. "Both of you. I've missed out on so much. It's a little disorienting. Or—not a little.  _A lot_. I feel like I've crashed into the lives you've all had going during my Sleep."

Here is the crux of her distress. Her hand, in Haji's, goes as cool as his own, and her pulse races.

"You did not 'crash' into anything, Saya," Haji says quietly. "Every moment of every day, you kept us on our paths."

"He's right." Kai places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing. "We always talked about you. Even when things got tough, you inspired us to keep going. Right now, I know it feels like you're playing catch-up. Getting up to speed on how much stuff's changed. But I promise you, this is still your home. We're family, just like always."

"Family." Saya absorbs the word like a tonic. Haji almost feels it diffusing the ache of her loss. "I... I hope so. When I'm with you two, it feels like nothing has changed. Even when everything is brand-new. It's scary... but. It makes me happy, too."

"We'll be here for whatever you need. All of us."

Kai's gentle voice shores it up not as a platitude but as tenable fact. His eyes, meeting Haji's over Saya's head, are completely unmindful of himself.

It is like being at the Met again, the two of them determined to anchor down this fragile girl who is caught between existence and its opposite, while knowing in their bones that it is she who anchors  _them_.

Jealousy or ego cannot survive for long in the wake of that. The bottom line, then as now, is Saya's happiness.

She nods, her smile wavering only a little. Not grief, but gratitude. "Always. Can you promise me that?"

"I can promise my lifetime. Whatever that's worth." Kai never downplays his humanity, or its limitations. As with everything in his life, he accepts the failings with good grace, focusing on what is possible, rather than what is not.

It is a trait Haji finds unique to the Miyagusukus, and worth emulating.

Then Kai looks his way with a smirk. "Now  _Haji_ , you're stuck with forever. Good luck having fun with  _this_ rice-pudding cup."

The mouthiness, not so much.

" _Hey_!" Saya puffs up kittenishly. "I get plenty of fun out of him! And he never calls me  _Fatty_  when I take second or third helpings of dinner. Unlike  _some_  people."

"He's probably just avoiding your attention. Never know when you'll go all cannibal and eat him too."

"I would  _not_! At least..." She flushes, her eyelashes dipping. She regards Haji through them, with a smolder that puts every silver-screen beauty to shame. "Not in public."

Kai chokes mid-sip on his drink. " _Whoa_. TMI—and  _disgusting_!"

Saya giggles, unrepentant despite her blush. The sound holds the hot sweetness of butterscotch liqueur, going through Haji the same way. And, dear god, now they are having  _a moment_ right in front of Kai, gazes tangled and smiles shy.

Except he is too glad to be embarrassed. Because Saya is glowing, and tangible, and  _here_ , not adrift on a cloud of misery where he cannot reach her.

It is a glimpse of grace that cannot be taken for granted. A becoming, if not a promise, of better times ahead.

Or, perhaps, simply the calm before the storm.


	8. Tórir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7! Posted a day early so I can get started on the next one! Following the (mis)adventures of the ancient Chevalier - and the trail of carnage left in his wake. Sorry this installment is so short - but I solemnly swear next one will be satisfyingly long and full of SayaxHaji fluff/smut :D
> 
> Also, a huge thank you for all the delicious reviews! Y'all are seriously amazing, and your feedback makes me the happiest of fanficcers! I try keep every comment in mind as I continue to craft the tale, and your suggestions and critiques are always welcome!
> 
> Now on with the chapter! CW for violence and mild gore - but nothing more scandalous than vampires being vampires.
> 
> Review pretty please!

1 Chome-1-60 Asato,

Naha-shi, Okinawa-ken 902-0067

Japan

 _Thirsty_.

The boy jerks in his arms.

Hefty as a yeoman's farmhand—face like a dollop of dough and hair shaved down into a suede-fine bristle around his head. Young and strong. But dizzy with alcohol when he'd stumbled out from the bar, waving at his friends before he'd ducked into the alley to unzip and relieve himself against the wall.

The last piss of his life, it would turn out.

The human never saw his attacker coming, before his head was wrenched up, a cold hand covering his mouth just as a fearsome array of white teeth sunk into the spot between his neck and shoulder. The blood gushed syrup thick. Sweet, so sweet. Succulent.

They are in a district chockfull of flashing lights, peals of laughter and skirls of clashing music. Strong fumes of alcohol, with an undernote of rotting garbage, hang like a miasma in the air. Hotels and bars. Nightclubs. There are plenty of people around, mostly young, male and female, all dressed in different colors of the rainbow. All surging in and out of every brightly-lit building, walking meals just ripe for the picking.

The entire place is a bowl of bubbling red stew, and he is  _starving_.

Grinning, he grinds his prey's cheek across the rough bricks as he drinks, for no reason but  _because_. A substantial mouthful compared to the mother and daughter he'd fed on earlier—but they had satisfied him in other ways.

In retrospect, he should've cleaned the mess afterward and hid the bodies—except his thoughts were an emptyheaded fog that is only just clearing.

Now, he understands what he had barely comprehended at the start.

An insurmountable time has elapsed since the stormy battle.

Since he'd fought, tooth and claw, against  _her_.

Yet  _she_  is no more gone than he. Unlike before, he  _feels_  her—not closeby but on this island. Not the heat-signature but the essence. Yet different, somehow. Strangely diluted. As if—

_Could it be possible—?_

_Could she have progeny on this island?_

His heart gallops in his chest. Dread? Excitement?

He doesn't fixate on it, listening instead for the way his prey's breathing goes thready, the heartbeat fading. The moment it does, he drops the boy with a  _thud_ , wiping a hand across his bloodied mouth.

Gorgeous heat blossoms through him. It is supplanted by that familiar liquid flow of knowledge. Names, places, ideas, things, all tangling up inside him before smoothing perfectly into place within his system of understanding.

And within that understanding, a sudden name flares spark-bright.

 _Saya_.

He nearly gasps before it hits him. It is not  _that_  Saya—the Blue Queen. Nor her sister, that infernal Red, that hot-headed harlot, his wildest fantasy turned nightmare.

This is a different Saya, living and breathing on the shores of the island.

Hand-in-hand with her name tumble other associations:  _Red Shield. Goldschmidt. The Mission. Cinque Fleshes. Chevaliers. Diva._

 _Chiropterans_.

He blinks, and shakes his head, and stares at the crumpled human at his feet.

Not an ordinary kill. Evidently not even an ordinary man. This is a member of that... Red Shield. A descendant of one of the men who fought alongside Saya, in her quest to destroy Chiropterans.

To destroy... her sister.

The knowledge makes him blink, and expel a sudden sharp laugh into the air.

_What have I stumbled into...?_

A world where his kind— _Chiropterans_ , these humans call them—no longer rule? A world overrun by humans—with a Queen who lives alongside them? Treats them as equals? Slaughters her own kindred for them? It is unreal, and awful, and hilarious. So much so that he laughs again, a high jittery sound that bounces off the alley walls and fades into the dark belly of the night sky.

"Hello?"

He turns.

"Hello? Are you all right?"

A female voice. A female shape drifting closer. Long blonde hair. Hazel eyes. Clad in a glittery black T-shirt stretched taut across perky breasts, and denim shorts with frayed edges ending enticingly mid-thigh. Like the lifeless boy, she also exudes hot waves of alcohol.

His first temptation is to leave, eyeblink-fast, before she glimpses him. But after the drink, his mind is bright and sharp and full of plans. He needs a change of clothes. Money. A place to stay, while he parses through the deluge of sensory signals that compose this glittering new world.

And time to reconnoiter, before he seeks out this younger, newer  _Saya_.

In threat? In greeting?

He can't say, beyond knowing that the idea of her is accompanied by an irresistible burst of curiosity.

_Not just her._

_There are others._

Two more Queens. Daughters of Saya's sister— _Diva_. Raised by a human male, who makes his home on this island, who takes in strays and cares for them, like his father before him. The knowledge seeps into him, warmth and laughter leaping from what feel like cubbyholes in his own memory. Names spangle on the tip of his tongue.  _Sayumi. Sayuri. Kai. Sachi. Vicente._

Again, he glances back at the fallen human boy.

_He is a childhood friend of the Queens._

A smile spreads across his face. A death's head leer.

Tempting to say it was his Wyrd that guided him to this boy. But Wyrd has never meant as much to him as his own will. It was how he, and his brothers, had brought an entire kingdom to its knees. How they had decimated an entire lineage of Queens. How they had reshaped history—with a resounding force that echoes, it seems, to this day.

"Hey—mister? You okay?"

The woman edges closer cautiously. He smells her perspiration, tinged with processed alcohol and bottled-up jasmine. Her heart flutters like a wary little canary in a cage—and all at once his appetite is stirred.

Not for blood. Not even for flesh—although she will certainly suffice if his mood so dictates.

 _No_.

What he wants is this pretty canary's feathers. A camouflage to wear, a nest to roost in, until he orients himself.

Making his choice, he turns and steps forward. The alleyway, pooled in shadow, conceals the motionless heap of the boy's body. She won't notice anyway—because his own appearance is distracting enough. Barefoot, in the frayed trousers and stained shirt he'd scavenged from a trash heap, sweat-streaks of white showing where his face is smeared with dirt, crusted scratches and marks across his exposed skin.

Like a vagrant, or a lunatic.

But his face, after the draughts of blood, has settled into its familiar visage. Heart-shaped and attractively vulpine. The unruly ginger hair sweeping down his shoulders, so dark it is like wet autumn leaves. The strong cheekbones. The lush pink rosebud of the mouth. The mismatched eyes he'd inherited under a thick fringe of lashes—but not from one of the countless 'uncles' who used to drop by to see his mother.

 _The whore's boys_ , they used to call him and his brothers—among uglier things.

All with those same uncanny, ill-matched eyes of their father.

One brown, one blue.

Those same eyes meet the woman's now. Hers widen—not in fear but concern. "Oh my god! Are you all right?"

He smiles and holds her gaze, exploiting, as always, the nobility particular to his expression. That gallant bearing that radiates good breeding and goodwill. That same one that made peasants think it was safe, in his human days, to let their daughters walk alone with him at night. The one that made Queens think, when he became a Chevalier, that they could entrust him with secrets of the realm.

The trust had cost them their lives.

"I am fine."

The language takes flight in his mind even as he opens his mouth—the proper cadences and syllables to use. The woman had spoken in English. He responds in kind. But he deliberately keeps a trace of his accent.

Let her think he is a lost tourist, and respond with that benevolent condescension that makes it easier to drop her guard. Let her think his club-footed inability to bridge language barriers is a translation of naivety and helplessness.

"I was ... jumped near Makishi Park," he says. "They took my wallet."

"Oh  _god_! You poor thing! Did you call the police?"

"I could not. My... cell phone was taken too."

More noises of sympathy. She fishes into her own handbag for her phone, and begins punching numbers. But before she gets halfway there, he lurches, pretending to stumble.

" _Whoa_!"

She reaches to steady him, the phonecall forgotten. Pretend-grateful, he accepts her help, letting her encircle an arm around his waist to steady him. This close, heat radiates off her like fresh-baked bread. She has a tattoo in the pattern of a Celtic knot on her arm, a glint of metal in her right nostril, a gold wedding band encircling her finger, and a wide mouth painted the eye-popping color of old blood.

Blood.

This entire world is swimming with blood. All for him.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"I—Yes." He smiles, a flustered schoolboy smile of embarrassment. "I took... a few blows to the head."

A pretty frown. "I hope it's not a concussion. You should go to a clinic."

"I will find one. As soon as... I call the police."

She nods, but doesn't let go. Instead she steers him, with effort, out of the alley and toward a weed-tangled lot where shining rows of cars are parked.

He resists, feigning confusion. "Where are we going?"

"I have a first-aid kit in my car. And a pencil light for examining your eyes." She flashes a reassuring smile. "Relax. I'm an RN."

"A... Registered Nurse."

"Mmhm."

"At the ... Kadena Base?"

"No, they have their own staff there. I work at Lester Naval Hospital. Just a couple minutes away."

"Ah."

Good news. She is a civilian, not a military nurse. That will cause less complications.

He falls into unsteady step with her. Lets her lead him to her car, a blue model that clicks with crisp recognition in his mind as a Nissan Teana. She opens the front passenger door, and eases him into the seat. He stays where he is, head cradled mock-dizzily in his hands, while she rummages in the glove compartment.

Finding what she needs, she coaxes him to look up at the car's ceiling. Then, flicking on the torch, she shines it into each pupil with a businesslike efficiency.

"No issues yet," she murmurs. "But that doesn't rule out the risk. You should be examined every fifteen minutes in case of a bleed."

"I will... go to the clinic. Or hospital. Or wherever," he says. "As soon as I speak with... the police."

Again, that pretty frown. "You should get examined first. I can drive you to Lester Naval. They might see you quicker there."

"Ah—no, no. I would not... want to inconvenience you."

"Not an inconvenience." She smiles. "You wouldn't be the first person I've dragged to the hospital. I've got, um, something of a reputation."

"For ... bringing in waifs?"

"Not waifs. People who need help."

"Ah." He dares a smile of his own. His mismatched eyes dip to her wedding band. "Such... charitable spirit. Your husband must worry about you."

"What?—Oh." Blushing, she pushes a dangling forelock behind her ear. "Fiancé, not husband. And he's  _waaaay_  worse than I am."

"Another charitable spirit?"

"A saint. And a doctor to boot."

"Ah." Meaning he must be especially careful, once he's done with this woman, to leave no physical evidence behind. "Pardon my manners. I did not... catch your name."

"Ashleigh. You?"

"I am... Tórir."

"Tórir. That's an unusual name."

"Yes. It means—"  _Creature of Thunder._  "Warrior. It is old Faroese."

"Faroese, huh? Aren't they near Iceland?"

"Close, yes."

"Wow. You're a long way from home, Mr. Tórir."

"... Yes."

For a moment, hearing his name on her lips fills in him a floating sense of displacement. Centuries traveled in the short period of an eyeblink, time a black maw that reminds him that the context of his life is a continent and an era away; that his people, his tribe, his realm, exist in a different era that is no more.

For a moment—just a moment—sadness creeps in a dark ring at the edges of his vision.

In the next breath, rage blots it out. A rage that he'd carried with him every day as a human, a cold core beneath the pleasant layers of himself. A rage that was his fuel when he became a Chevalier for the sole purpose of bringing down an entire dynasty of Queens, an exoskeleton that was bitter and monstrous and perfectly ordinary beneath his skin.

A rage that still remains, magnified by centuries of waiting. Wild and dark and tasting of eternity.

"Hey—you okay?"

He blinks. Realizes his hands are knotted into aching fists. Exhaling, he unclenches them. "Yes. I...I am fine."

She looks skeptical, and a little concerned. "Strap yourself in. I'm driving you to the hospital."

"But—"

"No buts. Trust me, you need a doctor."

She stows away her torch, before swinging into the driver's seat. He obeys, with a show of reluctance, marveling for the hundredth time how easily disorientation melts into familiarity with every human he feeds from, his fingers clumsy on the car door, the seat belt, the lock, before they become deft and matter-of-fact, everything melting into smoothness like droplets of frost fallen into a springtime puddle.

The woman turns the key in the ignition. The engine revs up with a purr. From the sound system, music drifts in: glittery strings and lilting arpeggios that are like dustmotes caught in a sunbeam. The sound makes the airwaves thrum strangely. Makes Tórir blink—not with bewilderment but something far more unnatural.

Awe.

"New Viennese Philharmonic," the woman says, noticing his look. "A solo cover by their cellist. Chopin's  _Fantaisie Impromptu_."

"...Ah."

The music swells in the car's narrow interior, a gold colored sphere that seems to ricochet through the darkness, scattering into dazzling fragments, then reuniting in a deeper hue, again and again. A mass of soundwaves and atoms taking flight on pure loneliness and the wings of rage, beneath all that Baroque wrapping.

It is the loveliest, saddest, strangest thing he has ever heard.

And with the music, the name comes rapidly, shot like an arrow to the brain.

" _Haji_."

The woman blinks with startled delight. "Huh! So you're a fan too."

"I... Yes. I suppose so."

The blood, taken from the boy earlier, seeps through him in a rich deluge of facts. Histories. Relationships. Faces. This Haji is the Chevalier of the younger not-Saya Saya. Both of them residing in a pretty limestone villa near Naminoue Beach. Old fighters—burnouts—salvaging a future out of a past crafted from bloodshed and bitterness.

Tórir lets the gravity of all these associations flow through him, with a sense of blossoming wonder. And then, a sense of cruel, triumphant purpose.

"... Miss Ashleigh."

"Yeah?"

"I am very thankful to you."

She smiles at that. "Hey, no probl—"

He doesn't give her a chance to finish. He lunges at her, the weight of his torso whamming her skull against the steering-wheel. One ferocious jerk, and he has an arm wedged under her throat, and then he squeezes and squeezes, and squeezes.

She flails and sputters. Athletic and strong—but no match for him. Not with the awkward angle, the cramped space, or his preternatural strength. Her nails scratch pathetically at his arms, palms smacking in a futile drumbeat against the dashboard, the steering-wheel.

When her pulse slows to a thread-fine cadence, then nothing at all, he heaves her body sideways, past the gears and pedals, and dumps her in the passenger seat.

Then he climbs into her empty spot, and pulls the car out of the lot.

All around him, the music sparkles, like glints of colored light caught in a chandelier.  _Fantaisie Impromptu._

A slow smile creeps across his face, exposing a white slit of fangs.

_How fitting._

Once he sinks his teeth into this new world, tearing it apart and swallowing it down in an ecstasy of red, red revenge, it will be his own darkest fantasy come true.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I want to emphasize that the plot is going to be pretty slow-boiling until it overflows into drama. That said, expect a lot of cat-and-mouse games between Tórir and Our Valiant Heroine. Some more gruesome than others.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed - and if you're sad about the lack of SayaxHaji, take heart! Next chapter is devoted entirely to them, and will be the first of many!
> 
> Tórir: Faroese variant of the Icelandic Þórr, or thunder. Like the Norse God, Thor - only nowhere near as endearing. In creating him as an OC, I wanted to experiment with a potential villain who was a bit like all of Diva's Chevaliers combined, but with issues of his own, which will manifest during the course of the tale. But never fear, woobify him, I will not. Also, his ability to gain knowledge via blood-drinking (a variation of psychoscopy) is my own headcanon about Chiropterans and their abilities, many of which the series barely touched on. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Review, please :)


	9. Milestones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty! Chapter 8 is up! Long and fluffy and full of Saya/Haji as promised - but with a foreboding trickle of trouble to come. Also gently beginning to explore some problematic dynamics in their relationship (and how they will worsen before they get better). Adult content is imminent, so all minors please vamoose!
> 
> A huge thank you to all the lovely feedback I've gotten on this fic! It's a huge incentive to keep going, even when I find myself daunted by the outline's huge chapter count, and the over-the-topness of the plot itself! Remember, your critiques and suggestions are forever welcome!
> 
> Now on with the fic! Review, pretty please! :)

It begins, inevitably, with a phone call.

Come to think of it, don't such things always begin with a phonecall? Particularly at two in the morning? No one ever calls at that witching hour with pleasant news.

The weekly forecast has promised storms; a half-typhoon, half-squall rolling in off the sea, studded with thunderclouds and sparking lightning. It sweeps through the island with a force that tears shingles off rooftops and snaps trees into splinters. There are sporadic blackouts across the city.

Saya has been jittery all day. Haji has come to recognize these anxious upswings; sometimes they signal surface boredom, other times something darker.

Last night, she'd tried to coax him upstairs with her. When he'd tactfully suggested that she rest instead, she'd pouted in a way that couldn't have flattered him more—until her grumping was undercut by a yawn. Haji had delivered her gently to bed, where she had fallen asleep even before her head hit the pillow. In the morning, groggy and sloe-eyed, she'd gone through her morning rituals like a zombie—until he set a cup of coffee in her hands. It took her, as always, ten minutes to muster up sentient communication—and ten more to peer into their empty fridge and become adrenalized by horror.

_Oh no! There are no more eggs!_

A state of emergency was declared. Grabbing his arm, Saya dragged him to the supermarket to fetch groceries and the standard typhoon-season supplies, with an earnestness he secretly found charming. Her interest in mundane tasks shows that she is still rooted in the world, surely? Not overwrought or catatonic?

In the cheery fluorescent lights of the store, debating the merits of strawberry versus chocolate yogurt, she seems deceptively ordinary, a teenager pleasantly absorbed in daily chores. The cart squeaks as it is piled higher and higher with fruits, vegetables, cereals, technicolor sweetstuffs. She barely glances at the pricetags—just pounces on whatever she likes.

Haji would gently caution her against it. Not because they lack the funds—between Red Shield's monthly stipend, royalties from the  _Philharmonic_  era, and the sizable nest-egg the first Joel Goldschmidt left for them both, they are flush. Not even because, as per the teachings of his youth, it was the gentleman's duty to be industriously frugal—and thus to have the paramount claim over finances.

None of that matters. There is simply, within him, the residual child who lived on beggary and scraps, and who abhors wastefulness.

Except he is too distracted by the sweet sonata of pronouns Saya tosses around— _We should get that black forest cake—Our kitchen doesn't have a spice-rack, does it?—The manager says next week they'll have Keats Mangoes for us._

More distracting is the way her little hand flits so often to him—his arm, his shirtfront, his coat lapel. Haji finds himself nodding, making agreeable noises. The rest of him spins like a top.

There is a  _pinch-me_  incredulity to this ordinary outing. Because this is  _Saya_. Because she always makes everything fresh and exhilarating and unpredictable, even herself. Because she compels him, by her sheer existence, by the swooping highs and spiraling lows of her life, to be brave.

Not brave in battle—where Haji is in his element. Brave at  _life_.

By himself, Haji is dead-steady and staid, his i's dotted, his t's crossed, his body a residence of quiet calm. But—for a man who always travels in solitude, who has an entire case at the villa full of awards for  _Most Outstanding Soloist_ —he has never considered himself a loner. His life pivots too intensely on Saya for that.

Without her, he is always on standby. Always in a static state of being, but never  _becoming_.

And that makes all the difference.

With Saya, life is never a straight line. It is a disorienting loop between joy and despair, wreckage and salvation.

A fairytale in everyday skin.

At the delicatessen, Saya places orders for steak cuts and bottled blood later this week. Explains, at his curious look, that Kai shared a blood-soup recipe with her, and she wants to try it for him. Flitting to the beverages section, she grabs a tin of imported Turkish coffee he'd liked in their Zoo days. At the cosmetics aisle, she sprintzes on body-mists and perfumes so strong they do his head in—a bouquet of rose, lily and violet on one wrist, a bowl of peaches, plums and pomegranates on the other.

She complains about how perfumes these days don't smell as authentic as the attars of their heyday. Tries to enlist his help anyway, in choosing an overpriced bottle, and then a handful of lipsticks in candy colors.

He obeys, gallantly, even as his eyes glaze over. He has never been interested in the secrets of the feminine toilette—although he has more patience for it than Kai (When the twins were adolescents, they'd always asked Haji to chaperone them on shopping-trips, instead of their short-fused father).

Except, following the shiny crown of Saya's head as it bobs between the aisles, he realizes: she's doing this for  _him_ as much as herself.

Trying to figure out what pleases him.

This tumbles into place in his framework of understanding, connecting with other details that had previously eluded him: the restlessness, the spendthrifting, the physical touches, the constant promptings for his opinion. All the little signs pointing to what he'd once scarcely believed was possible.

Saya's fingers pluck at his sleeve. "Do they sell frozen  _blini_  here?"

 _Blini_?

He hasn't tried that since he was a boy; his grandmother would dole out the Romani staple, fragrant with chives and slathered with goat's cream, on special occasions. A rarity in itself. Even before his family were driven to such dire straits in France that they'd traded their only son for a loaf of bread, food was scarce and dangers (diseases, authorities, robbers, racists) abundant. Anything they could get, they'd pickled and salted, to make it last as long as possible.

 _He who eats much eats away his own luck,_  his grandmother used to say.

And now, here is Haji, decades later. Sustaining himself on not a bite of food, and yet preserved more thoroughly than any pickle in his grandmother's jars.

"I am not sure," he manages. " _Blini_  is not a popular snack here."

"Well. Maybe I can try it from scratch? Eggs. Cream. Flour. Kai said it shouldn't be too complicated."

"Perhaps not."

"Are you sure you don't want any salmon roe? You used to like it as a boy."

"It's fine," he says, light-headed.

Shyly, she threads her fingers through his. "Maybe I'll get some  _tofuyo_  instead? I know you hate the smell, but I'm kind of peckish."

"If that is what you wish."

"I also saw these cute men's socks on display. They've got Dragon Ball Z characters on them. I'll get those for you."

"Of course."

"And the matching boxers too."

"Hm," he says, floating a hundred miles away and yet anchored to nothing but her hand in his. The lights make his eyeballs buzz, the Muzak of Classic 80s Hits is ghastly, the aisles are a sensory overload of colors, and somewhere in the distance, a child throws a screeching tantrum.

He doesn't care. He would say  _Yes_  to anything right now, be it serenades or slaughter.

Smiling, Saya squeezes his hand.

"Haji, I'm pregnant."

He drops back into reality. " _What_ —?"

Saya dissolves into giggles. He tries for a disapproving frown. But it is erased by the brown eyes twinkling so wickedly into his own.

"Sorry," she says. "Just making sure you recognize the milestone we've crossed."

"What milestone?"

"We've bought no bottles of hydrogen peroxide. For bloodstains."

He hadn't considered that. But as the shock seeps in, his fingers tighten on hers.

Hopefully, that milestone becomes as commonplace as their grocery list itself.

By the time they wheel their provisions to the checkout, he is on such a cloud of contentment that he watches Saya hand over the credit card without once glancing at the totals. They are likely in quintuple Yen—and it hardly matters.

The teachings of his youth, such as they are, can shut their bone-box.

Outside, he piles their bags into the car. Nearby, Saya pores through the displays of a digitized newsstand.

"...Did you see this?" she asks, pointing at an article in the  _RyūkyūShimpō_.

"See what?"

Saya scrolls through the newspaper. "It says a mother and daughter were found dead in their home in Yonashironohen. Raped and mutilated by a gang, according to the police."

"Uruma is not as peaceful as it once was. The crime rate in Koza alone—"

"It says their bodies were ... bloodless."

Unease rises. Quietly, he touches a finger to the screen, flipping its pages to peruse the article. "It may be a ritual killing."

She seems perturbed. "Maybe."

"What is it? Are you concerned there is trouble?"

"No ... I don't know." She folds her arms across her chest. "What if it's a Chiropteran?"

"Chiropteran attacks have not occurred in Okinawa for thirty years, Saya. And never regarding—"

 _Sexual assault._ A majority of Delta67's victims exist in a nightmarishly neutered state of thirst, seeing humans not as sport but as walking bags of hot live blood.

The only time he and Saya encountered murders of a darker nature was at  _Le Lycèe Des Cinq Flèches_. That perpetrator was a Chevalier—a crazy one.

"Mm," says Saya. The small sound has a complex structure: doubt or agreement.

"Red Shield would have contacted us if they suspected a threat," Haji adds gently.

"You're right. Just—maybe we should check it out?"

"Do you think it necessary?"

"It doesn't seem  _un_ necessary."

Haji hesitates. "Red Shield can have the area scanned, Saya. There is no reason for you to—"

"No reason to exert myself. _I_   _know_."

Her gaze, bleak where it was pure brightness before, makes regret fan up hotly. Haji reaches for her hand. "If you are restless, we can head to the beach after the rain stops. Or to—"

She twists away. "It's fine."

"Saya—"

"Let's go. It's starting to pour again."

They pile the rest of the groceries into the car. During the ride back, Saya stays quiet, a mood he recognizes, and one that makes him, while not exactly afraid for her, nonetheless watchful. When he tries to coax her into conversation, she answers first in monosyllables, then not at all.

Par for the course, as always.

 _One milestone down,_  Haji thinks ruefully.  _A million more to go._

* * *

At home, the power is, to borrow an Americanism,  _on the fritz._

As if dissatisfied with the villa's dark interior, Saya retreats to the solarium—a spot Haji has rarely set foot in. From the door, he watches her putter around in the soil with pots and a packet of seeds. Wants to ask what she is up to, except he gets the sense she is trying to compensate in her own haphazard way for days' worth of nesting.

Trying, like at the supermarket, to create a sense of normalcy.

Since her Awakening, Haji has altered his schedule to suit hers as a matter of course. He's taken a lighter workload at the University of Arts, teaching smaller classes so he can be at home more. No overseas travel for Red Shield ops, either. Any Chiropteran dramas are best handled by their agents.

This is meant to be a time for Saya to relax. She needs it; since her Awakening, there is a fragile somnolence about her.

Haji and her family have done their best to indulge her, wary of overstimulating her. After her accident, the carefulness has become layered with scrutiny. They each take unofficial 'shifts' to oversee her, seldom letting her go anywhere unaccompanied. Keeping her away from anything dangerous: high places, deep waters, fast cars.

In the early days, Saya had halfheartedly acquiesced. But Haji knows she is concealing a restlessness that will only get worse.

Late evening, and the power is still out. By the glow of tealights, he watches Saya scarf down leftover  _champuru_. A good sign. She is still too thin—the thinness he doesn't like, a reminder of the war-days, when she was stringy and sallow-skinned, stress eating her inside-out so nothing seemed left of her but the brute willpower radiating from her eyes.

Her expression echoes those days: a contemplative line etched between her brows.

She asks if Haji is willing to resume their sparring sessions soon. Her reflexes, she complains, are at half-speed; she must stay active. The request would be concerning, in other circumstances. But he intuits that she simply wants to regain her inner focus, repossess her body.

Afterward, Saya coaxes him to play cello for her, as he did during rainy evenings at the Zoo. Now, as then, she hovers behind him. But instead of critiquing, she is quiet, lip bit and eyes intense. The stillness unnerves him; there is something nearly predatory to it. As if there is a storm brewing inside her as surely as the downpour outside.

Once, he dares to ask, "Is something the matter?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

 _Thinking_. Never a good sign—for either of them.

He is midway into Faure's  _Après un rêve_  when she comes up behind him. Her fingers drum along his shoulders. Tangle into his hair with a catlike kneading. She play-tugs, ruffles them into knots,  _yanks_  until he flinches.

" _Saya_." It is testier than expected. "What on earth is wrong with you?"

She kisses him. Deeply.

 _Oh_.

He is so obtuse, sometimes.

In the steamy heat of the bedroom—hers again—she shucks their clothes like cling-film. The weather's inversion—rain-dark outside, candle-honeyed inside—makes her glow. She is so lovely it hurts to look at her. A physical ache, thrumming through his bones, goading him to touch her even as everything inside him screams he doesn't deserve it.

Having Saya is like possessing liquid gold, an alchemist's fever-dream come to life. His heart shivers through every inch of him. It is a struggle to stay in control.

And tonight, she is edgy, frantic, needy. Bites like hot gunpowder. Nails tearing webs of red across his skin.

Gently, he lays her out across the bed. Kisses and gnaws every bit of her, her gasps turning to jittery cries as he buries his mouth between her thighs. The curls there, closely cropped, are already slick. When he combs through the tangle to pull her skin taut, sucking slowly and hungrily, she sobs on needful jerks. The taste of her presses in on him: rich, hot, delightfully salty. A body-shot before the lime.

The first night, he'd been too timid to serve her to all her potential pleasure, a stop-and-start rhythm of inexperience.

But this time, his predilection is for absolute  _thoroughness_.

It is half pornography, half unchoreographed torture. The curl of her body, all golden and twisty. The lush pink O of her mouth, and how it matches that mouthwatering pink where his tongue plays. Her mewls spur him on. Little fingers sometimes scrubbing at his hair. Sometimes flying back to clutch the sheets with outstretched arms, her head tossed back and thighs shaking. And as the seconds unwind, her cries break into overflowing croons, her hips rippling as if to feed herself to him.

Haji hears himself breathing raggedly in answer: low unrolling tones of pure greed. The sight of her—the  _sounds_ —leap up his body and around his brain, a psychedelic loop to replay over and over alone. It is almost a two-way valve. Wild altos to dipping fingers. Wilder spasms to gently-scraping teeth. Sobs and welling slickness to his raw openmouthed hums, until it is like biting into a juicy peach. Stains on the sheets below.

Right then, braced against her bed, he wants to drag her out of herself and into his insatiable mouth. To inhale and drink and devour her until she is deep down in his lungs, the cage of his ribs, his every love-saturated heartbeat.

A way, not to bind her to him, but to remember—once her Long Sleep takes her away—that this torn-open want is for no one but  _her_.

Then Saya's body becomes a twist of distress, pleasure edging nearly into torment. Yanking him up by the hair, she wraps her legs around him, claiming him in a tangle of limbs the way you fold a ribbon into a thoroughbred horse's mane.

" _Now—now—please_."

He tries to fill her slowly, patience thin over urgency. She is deliciously slick for him. Still not easy to enter—though not near-impossible like the first time, which was more torture than it was worth given the stress-lines tugging Saya's sweet face into a knot, her eyes dark and wet and drunk on pain.

Then, as now, his whole body feels oversized, achy, invasive.  _Why do I hurt her this way?_  he thinks in a split-second's misery—because it is so unfair to give her even a heartbeat's suffering, when for him she is depthless joy.

Then it happens despite itself, one long slipslide the rest of the way in, and the heat melts his brain and turns his body into a strata of fast-twitch muscle and pure  _need_.

" _Oh_!"

Saya shudders and cries out. But her face is broken-open in something more layered than pain. Her thighs flex against his flanks, hands scrabbling at his arms—a helpless struggle not for freedom, but fusion. It doesn't stop until he is sunk completely into her.

Gasping, he stays there for a full minute. Straight-armed, tremolo-spined, hair hanging in dark disarray over Saya's blindsided body.

"Are you... all right?"

Her lashes flit up to regard him. Slow breaths and pulsing heat, and a  _Yes_  that sets him on fire.

He forgets everything then—rationale, reason, restraint. Slowly, he flows over her, into her. Lets her dictate his rhythm, with snaky hips and stuttering cries, and hands that clutch and caress.

A steamy haze lays trapped inside the walls, turning both of them sweat-silked and jittery. Saya kisses him in time with the sway of their bodies. Wet, unpracticed kisses that flutter up her lips, and take wing on the gathering heat, until she is eating his mouth with desperation, trying to introduce a more forceful grind into their pace.

He senses that she is trying to scale the walls of her body and escape. Like if she wills herself not to think, but rushes things along, leaping from one stage to the next, she will elude the present as much as the past.

Be free of what she so irrationally dreads: inhabiting her own self.

"Saya—" It is an effort to shape the words. "Slow down."

Her  _Mmmm_  isn't negation but futility. Her ankles are crossed tightly against the small of his back. Whole body pulsing exquisitely around him as she works her hips, face blotchy and gasps frantic.

It tears at Haji, but he doesn't succumb. He slows to a stop.

"No, oh,  _please_  Haji—"

He swallows her high-pitched cries. She struggles furiously, drumming her heels at his spine and slapping two-handed at his chest. Her distress is palpable: a raw chemical signature of fight-or-flight.

Except halfway through she lets off a kittenish noise, the wildness melting into simple need. Her body melts too, arms and legs a soft knot around him. He doesn't stop the kiss until she is perfectly still, except for gusty sighs and those erratic tremors racing beneath her skin.

"Ha-Haji." Her drunken voice seeps into his bones. "What are you doing...?"

"Sssh."

He circles his hips, deep and fluid. Saya cries out in surprise. When he catches her gaze and holds it, still rocking inside her, her face—sweat-damp and rosy—goes darker still. A flush of giddy discovery.

"Don't rush," he says. "We have time."

"We—we do."

An unexpected gift. A room with a locked door, no time limit, no reason to guard the entrance, no danger shimmering at the horizon.

Nothing but the stormy spread of the night beyond.

Gathering her against him, he draws back on his knees with her straddling his lap. Saya moans, half in shock, half in delight. Then she catches him up in the tangle of her arms and legs. Takes over, with the stirring dance of her own body. Not up and down, as he's always imagined, but back and forth, a voluptuous rocking that leaves him half-lidded with rapture at the sight of her.

"Kiss me," she gasps, but he can already think of nothing else.

His mouth catches hers—breathless stabs of tongue leaving her as slick and swollen above as she is below. Each kiss just another way to be inside her, breaking off to mirror the dreamy curl of her smile. In the candle-light, she is flushed everywhere, a rose blooming wild in the heat. Rocking against him with a natural ferocity, her breaths sawing frantically in the silence before they crack into sweet broken sobs.

The sounds melt into his prickling skin. So raw, so obscenely beautiful, he could spend just listening to them.

Then she starts crying, those sobs rising from the deepest part of her, as if the heat wave has broken into a thunderstorm.

Haji falters, afraid for an awful moment that he's hurt her. But she stays clinging to him, anguish oozing from her wet eyes, until he comprehends what eluded him before. That even as their lovemaking is the unbearably sweet culmination of years of waiting, it is also the upheaval of terrifying emotions Saya has kept locked in a box for over a century.

"I'm s-sorry," she hiccups. "I—I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Sssh." He dots her sodden face with kisses. "Whatever you feel, Saya. Just—let yourself feel it."

"I d-d-don't know what I'm doing."

"Do it wrong, then."

"But—" She lets off a lovely hitching cry when he drags her closer. Palming her breasts down to the architectural marvel of her waist, before distracting her into motion, a rolling give-and-take that makes her whole body clutch at his. "Ha-Haji—"

"Sssh. I've got you."

"Oh—oh—!" The contralto transmutes into soubrette as he finds an angle to her liking. Red eyes riveted to his, a short-circuited glaze of shock. Her breaths come in shaky swoops, the rest of her going perfectly still, as if all her volatile drives are converging in on a single locus.

"There," she manages between hitched gasps. "Oh—oh please—just there!"

The candles have nearly gone out. The dim atmosphere is redolent of their bodies, and of the foggy rainfall outside. Saya's climax drags out of her on a hoarse wail. Not like their first night: a brief flash to distract from the relentless stretch of him inside her. This is  _breakage_ , her whole body undulating in the constriction of his arms, a rise and fall without end. Sobbing, she claws his arms, head tossed back and spine twisting in slow-motion: her flush has gone bright crimson, from the tips of her ears to the dip of her belly.

Haji watches with an infinitude of fascination. If orgasm is the zenith of sex, then this is almost the Müller-Lyer equivalent of its illusory opposite.

Then he can't think anymore. He is engulfed by the pull of her, his spine curving as he gives her all of him. A full-bodied spasm of completion he can't parse from madness, his whole body a surge of momentum tumbling her back, covering her, riding her roughshod, then collapsing across her.

Panting, he stays where he is, loathe to let her go. Beneath him, Saya gasps his name in gulps for air. Her whole body is still caught in powerful pulses that seem to wipe everything from her mind. Nails dragging ferociously down his back, hands kneading, thighs flexing.

"Don't—don't go—" It is a strangled plea. "Don't—please don't—oh, oh,  _oh_ —"

He crushes out her cry on a kiss. It almost  _hurts_ , she is clutching him so tight, inside and out. Leaving him both swept up and subjugated, shredded to nothing by her hot nails and piercing cries and the totality of her need. Hers, hers,  _hers_.

When she finally goes, he hopes she leaves him dead.

At last, they shiver to a stop. The scent of sex and downpour fills the room. Everything silent except for their broken gasps and the dripping of water from the eaves.

Shaken, Haji stays in place, the sensory shock of  _Saya-Saya-Saya_  still exploding through his system. His head lolls down with a drunken heaviness, hair falling in his eyes. Yet his mouth finds hers unerringly.

Saya sobs a little—in relief or exhaustion, he isn't sure. Her lips are salty with tears.

Then she wrenches away.

"Saya—?"

"That was—oh God." She sits up, swabbing at her wet eyes. "I—I have to go."

"Saya—" Concerned, Haji catches her arm. She gives off a fritzing energy, like after a battle. "What's wrong?"

"Leave me alone."

"Did something happen? Did I hurt you?"

" _No_."

She tries to rise. But her legs wobble like jellyfish.

Haji hesitates, trying not to crowd her. Not because she'll lash out, but because her face is drained of color and she is shaking all over, differently from before, her eyes gazing wildly off into the trance of memory.

Not a panic attack—but the presage of one.

He could let her stumble off to the bathroom, like their first night. Damage-control. Distance. It seems to be her habit. Perhaps it is simply her right as a fighter, to be entitled to her scars, her space.

Or, perhaps, it is time to redefine the space between them.

Gently, he passes his arms around her. Saya jerks. Her body holds the same tension from the war, a wire drawn vbiratingly taut across her shoulders. But she doesn't throw him off.

"Saya," he says again, softer, and her eyes flutter shut. She takes a breath—and holds it.

Watching her fall apart is one of the most agonizing things in Haji's life. Watching her piece herself together is, in its own way, worse. The way her eyes stare with the glossy sheen of a doll's. The way she forces the fear, breath by breath, back into that hellish little cell in herself. The way her spasms quiet into a thin, nearly imperceptible tremor, then into a body-drained stillness.

Holding her, Haji thinks to himself how strange it is, to be given everything he wants—yet still be dangling over an abyss, unknowing, uncertain.

Maybe Saya feels that way too.

For decades, Diva's death was her idée fixe. Now that she's accomplished it, it isn't easy to dust off her ordinary life, or fit herself into it as if nothing has changed.  _Everything_  is changed—herself, most of all. With the end of a long journey comes the end of endurance; it will take time to stretch herself out of the wreckage and take flight again.

Fortunately, she has time. This evening's upswing feeds a spark of hope.

Unfortunately, it may be worse before it gets better.

Saya's eyelashes are gummed together with tears. He kisses them. "Are you all right?"

"Mm."

They subside across the damp sheets. Snuffling, Saya cuddles close. Head cozied against his shoulder, her mussed hair ticklish against his jaw. Her heartbeat still skitters crazily.

"I didn't think—" she stops, and swallows.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just—I haven't felt that good in so long. I told myself I didn't miss it. I didn't deserve to." He hears the impulse to tears. Her voice trembles. "I'm such a liar."

Something scrapes in his chest. Rage—not at Saya, but at the wretchedness of the war, for taking even the smallest consolations from her.

Nuzzling into her heap of hair, he rubs his cheek against hers. "You are far too hard on yourself, Saya."

"Am I? I'm just ... so used to it. Never letting go. I've been terrified to since—"

 _Since the Vietnam massacre_.

The ache in Haji's chest becomes an agonizing knot. But her admission reveals what he's privately suspected. Whatever makes her falter during intimacy, it is a blockage in the mind more than the body.

He doesn't verbalize it. It wouldn't do to put words in Saya's mouth. Better for her to define it on her own terms.

So he waits, the silence an invitation.

Finally, Saya whispers, "I-I don't know how to explain it. After Vietnam, it feels like there's—this ugly slithering  _thing_  inside me. Like it's waiting to kill me, the second I'm not in full control. Each time, all I can think is that—if I don't shut it out—I'll go unhinged inside. Lose myself completely." Her gaze drops. "I know it sounds stupid."

"Not at all, Saya." How can it, when it is so explicitly bound with all her old hurts? "Identifying yourself with control... It was all you had in the war. The habit will be hard to break at once."

"I didn't think I ever could."

The tears come again, shaking themselves out in spasms. Not sadness, but relief. Since the war, it's evident she's forgotten that preciously simple emotion; it crashes in on her now with unrecognizable force.

Gently, Haji circles her closer. She clings to him, each bitten-down sob scalding him inside as much as her. She can't talk, and he doesn't try to make her. The words don't matter. It is enough that she can tell her truth this way, passed from skin to skin.

It is a moment before she comes back to herself, trembling all over.

"God, look at me," she hiccups. "I always ruin the mood. I-I'm not any good at—"

"Ssssh." He kisses each wet eyelid with loving care. "It is not a true milestone without one of us soaked in blood or crying."

Half-huffing, half-laughing, she jabs her fingers at a soft spot on his side. A miraculous feat. He does not to have too many soft spots.

Carefully, he readjusts them, so their two glossy heads conspire across the same pillow. Her smile is riveting. If Haji were a praying man, he would pray then, for nothing more than the miracle of this moment, caught in the storm-grey filter of time.

"You know," she whispers. "You're… not at all what I expected."

"Expected?"

"In bed." Her eyelashes flit shyly, slyly, to his face. "I thought things would be... I don't know. Prudish. Flannel nightgowns and doing it under the sheets in the dark. Instead you're easy."

He crooks a brow. "'Easy?'"

"N-Not! In, like, a skanky way. I just mean... in your skin. In the way you touch me. Talk to me." She pecks him meltingly on the lips. "It's sexy."

He relaxes into a half-smile, fatally susceptible as always to the tiniest dollop of praise from her. "We have known each other a long time."

"Is that all it is?" Mischief fizzes in her words. "It wasn't the Marriage Manuals that taught you all those tricks?"

"Marriage Manuals?"

"At the Zoo's library. Joel had an entire collection, remember?"

He shakes his head. "I never read those."

"Not once?"

"No." His smile grows boyishly lopsided. "I was more interested in those lurid pillow books at the bottom shelf. What were your favorites? _The Lustful Turk. Gamiani. The Way of a Man with a_   _Maid_ …"

" _Wha-a-at_!" Her embarrassment simmers in the air. "How do you know they were mine?"

"You bookmarked your favorite pages." He meets her horrified expression with his most innocent one, "With embroidered pink ribbons."

Saya lets off a puppyish whine and buries her hot face in his shoulder. " _Haji_!"

He exhales a quiet laugh, and after a moment she does too—a champagne-bubbling spill.  _Victorian_  is the term so often misapplied to Saya and himself. As if they grew up in proud Britannia, in a climate of scrupulous morality, straitlaced as saints and sipping Imperial tea on Sundays—not in France during the high drama of the Long Nineteenth Century, two unruly wards of a free-thinking radical like Joel Goldschmidt, who barely batted an eyelid at having a  _siège d'amour_  installed in the guestroom and who imparted sexual politics to fourteen-year-old Haji with a blunt matter-of-factness: " _Always remember that love, which we cry up as the source of our pleasures, is nothing more than an excuse for them."_

Neither he nor Saya were exaggeratedly prim and proper. But there were certain standards of decorum both were raised to abide to—ones well-suited to Haji's own circumspect nature.

Yet here, the natural reserve inverts into honesty.  _Easy_ —as Saya says. The undercurrent of intimacy that goes beyond blood, to the shared joys and pains of childhood.

Gently, he strokes a finger along her arm. Smiles when she lets off little shiver. After a beat, she peeps at him, eyes shy.

"I keep feeling…"

"Hm?"

She is still smiling. But her eyes go somber. "I keep feeling it'll be all right. Whenever we're together like this. But sometimes—"

"What?"

She hides her face in the crook of his neck again. He feels her gathering herself, her silence making a smooth glaze between them. "It's nothing."

"No, please. Tell me what is on your mind."

This time, her laugh is a beguiling deflection. "You pound me out of earth's orbit, then ask what's on my mind?"

"Something always is."

She winces.

Haji doesn't want to push. Humor is fine. But emotion is another matter altogether. They have always guarded the heart of themselves in that sphere, Saya and him. Always gone for tersely-coded communications, both of them clutching to their secrets as long as possible. The spillover was in the neutral territory of the battlefield; not the car seat, the kitchen, the supermarket isle, the bedroom.

Now, the scripted lines of warfare have been struck out. It is both a thrill and a terror to improvise from their own hearts, as simply  _Saya and Haji_.

"I'm sorry," she whispers then.

"For what?"

"Everything. The—the moodiness and meltdowns. The craziness."

He starts to refute the last word. She cuts him off.

"You're so sweet with me. So patient. And I—I  _want_  us to get on with our lives. Get to the next part, and the next, where it feels like we're together as a normal couple and living  _life_. But—"

"But?"

She broods even as their gazes meet. "But I'm still the wreck I was before. It's not your fault, but it's also what I was afraid of. Not being worth the trouble. It's hard to stay true to someone who's only there for a—what do they call it? A triennium. Maybe you'll get tired of it. You'll decide I'm not worth it, and—"

A chill settles in Haji's chest. Terrible, that she'd reach the opposite conclusion he had. That, once healed, she'd find him a redundancy at best, a nuisance at worst. Not because Saya possesses a fickle nature, but because she deserves tenfold more than anything he can offer.

Whereas the idea of  _his_  abandonment even crossing her mind—!

He rolls so she is tumbled beneath him. The pink of her mouth is too luscious, too tempting. He kisses it over and over. She is crying again, but it doesn't matter; tears are allowable in this outpouring of emotion. Palming her spine, kneading the wings of her shoulderblades, clutching at adoring handfuls of her hair, Haji feels himself burning inside-out in the heat of her, and sighing at the heavenly feel anyway—so much more real than the rainfall, the bed, the hazy grey shapelessness of the world.

They break off, foreheads touching in a damp circle. The drumming rainfall and their gasps are the only sounds in the room.

"Please," Saya says. "Don't leave me again."

" _Never_ , Saya." He can't get enough of combing his hands through her hair. "During your Long Sleep, I thought of you every single moment. Now that you are here, I only want to keep you happy. To be  _good_  for you."

She blushes, shyness a silky scarf across self-doubt. "What? You aren't already too good for me?"

"I need to do better. To take care of you."

"Oh Haji. You don't need to  _take care_  of me. I-I want us to be partners. Equals."

He turns this proposal around in his mind. Such a simple thing. Yet there is nothing simple about it. Not for them.

He has spent too long loving her as a soldier, stationed at a great distance. Has never remotely imagined himself worthy of her, so that even to the last, after confessing his feelings at the Met, he'd willingly thrown himself in harm's way, flotsam from the stormy past, because his death was easier to imagine than a world where she might love him back.

It will be like this for a while—Ares clashing with Eros—until it stops being and simply  _is_.

Quietly, he says, "If we are to be partners, I have one request."

"What?"

"Please talk to me more."

"Talk…?"

"Trust me enough to share if something troubles you. Or if there is anything you need. Anything at all."

"Aren't I always asking you for things? I've pestered you since we were young."

"You have never 'pestered' me, Saya. Not then, and not now." He lets the cool cradle of his palms meet her cheeks. Lets his thumbs brush, delicately, across her wet eyelashes. "I simply mean that you needn't shut yourself off. Not the way you did—"

_In the war._

He doesn't say it. He doesn't need to.

Saya sighs, the angles of her face shadowy. For heartbeat, she looks eerily young to Haji. And, eerily, older than even her one-hundred-odd years of existence. In that moment, he sees Saya the warrior: lonely and tired and difficult to understand.

But that makes it easier to love her. Because he realizes: her unhappiness is not the gulf stretching between them. The gulf  _is_  Saya, one single unbroken thing, a heartbreaking continuum of her.

Until she finds the courage to become someone new.

"Give me time," she whispers. "I'm not sure how long that is, but—let me have it. Until everything stops being so strange. Without the war. Without—"

_Without Diva._

He starts to speak, but she touches a fingertip to his lips.

"For now, I-I'd like you to do something else for me."

"Anything."

Her lashes flit upward. The look is an echo from their Zoo days. Saya in all her mischief: dark-eyed and irresistible.

"I-I want to try some things I might like. Things from those 'lurid' pillow books you peeked into. Is that okay?"

The sweetness sends chills through Haji. Makes him want to gather her closer, murmur soft things into her ear, promises to have and to hold, a thousand and one things massing in his chest like a thunderhead at the horizon.

But he doesn't say any of that.

Instead he sinks down, kisses and hands worshipful, to show her without a word how much he loves her.

Later—a delicious span of hours later—she drowses like a cosseted kitten against him. Outside, the storm has softened, a white-noise that fills the air with the scent of downpour. Haji's gaze stays fixed on the rain trickling at the window. Mesmerized by those dappled shadows, and the sound of Saya's breathing: smooth inhales, whispery exhales.

 _This can't be real,_  he thinks.

Gently, he kisses the whorl of her hair. Smiles as she sleep-mumbles about crispy  _soki_  for dinner. He could hold her like this until dawn, listening to her breathing as avidly as the rainfall.

At the bedside table, Saya's cellphone jangles.

"Wha—?!"

Saya flails awake in his arms. Her bleary eyes skitter from Haji to the ringing phone. In that moment, they are both thinking the same thing:  _This can't be good_. It is Red Shield's private number. Only Kai, David, Joel and a handful of upper-echelon operatives have access to it.

Steeling himself, Haji reaches for the phone—but Saya beats him to it. Sitting up, the sheet clutched to her chest—a modesty he finds both redundant and adorable—she lifts the receiver with a shaky hand. "H-Hello?"

It is Kai. Haji recognizes the hard-hitting pitch of his voice. Whatever he says wipes the look of apprehension off Saya's face.

Suddenly she is red-alert and steely. " _Where_?"

Kai's answer is an indistinguishable buzz. But Haji doesn't need to hear the words to catch the subtext. Especially not when Saya's free hand reaches, in unthinking reflex, for the sword at her bedside.

His languor drains away, replaced by the chill of inevitability.

 _Trouble_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siège d'amour: Quite literally a 19th century sex chair. I kid you not. Google it.
> 
> Also, the marriage manuals of the Regency/Victorian era are a beauty to behold. Not because of their bizarre interpretations of domestic bliss and the unattainable feminine ideal, but because, when you read between their verbose lines, they're really not so different from your typical Cosmo article today: rife with spurious advice, thinly-veiled condescension, and an emphasis on the woman's looks as opposed to anything upstairs.
> 
> We haven't come that far, baby.
> 
> Also, Haji teasing Saya about the pillow books is the modern-day equivalent of "I ttly scrolled through your browser's search history to see what flavor of porn you liked." The works he mentions - The Lustful Turk, Gamiani, The Way of a Man with a Maid - are all available online, and are all heavily NSFW and politically incorrect in the merry way of porn through the ages. Read at your own risk.


	10. Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie-doke! Updating the fic early as the next installment will be a little late-ish. Trouble is abrew, Saya gets herself into - then out of - a jam, and the Mysterious Chevalier takes a fancy.
> 
> CW: Attempted sexual assault/violence in the second section. Begins right after the line "...eyes the same arctic blue as Diva's are cutting across the rain to hers." It culminates more in Saya going on a rampage, tbh, but the scene could certainly be construed as disturbing. If y'all require more specific TWs, please PM me and let me know. The last thing I want is to ruin someone's day while they're reading shippy fanfic.
> 
> That said, I hope the chapter provides a more fast-paced contrast to the previous few. Comments and critiques are always welcome! Review pretty please!

Itokazu Hospital

1 Chome-28-1 Tomari,

Naha-shi

They find the twins in the emergency room.

Sayumi and Sayruri are still in their pajamas. Sayuri's are a milky green shade of chartreuse, silk with lace piping on the collar and hem. Sayuri's resemble gym clothes: shorts and a baggy black T-shirt whose embossed red-and-white letters—BABYMETAL—are already half-disintegrated by multiple bouts in the washing machine.

They both sit huddled on the waiting-room bench, dull-eyed and disheveled.

V is stretched out full-length on the bench opposite to them. He pops a  _kendama_  ball into its cup: a mechanical tic that belies his restlessly darting eyes. In the corner, Sachi feeds coins to the vending machine and kneels to fetch bottles of Calpis milk.

"—What's happened?!"

The four of them glance up as Saya rushes in, tailed by Haji.

Stirring from her slouch, Yumi says, "It's Adam. They found him near the Bar Junket, off of Sakurazaka Street."

"...Adam?"

"David and Julia's youngest," Haji says quietly, folding his wet umbrella shut. To the twins: "What is wrong with him?"

"We're not sure," Yuri says. "His throat was torn open. When his friends called the ambulance, he was in hypovolemic shock."

A jolt of disquiet goes through Saya. More than that—a déjà vu.

_Didn't they say that about Riku, after Diva attacked him at the Zoo...?_

Shivering, she snaps to attention.

"Was he attacked by a Chiropteran?" she asks.

The twins exchange glances, a non-verbal cue she is growing accustomed to— _Is Saya having one of her 'episodes' again?_

Yumi says, "There haven't been Chiropteran attacks near Okinawa in  _ages_ , Auntie Saya."

"Who could it be, then? Someone he knew?"

"We aren't sure. But it was definitely someone dangerous. Red Shield is investigating the incident."

"And Adam? Will he be okay?"

Sayuri bites her lip. "The injury barely missed his carotid artery. They're trying to stabilize him with a blood plasma transfusion. But there's a risk of organ failure. Given how long he was left to bleed out..." She breaks off. Sachi slips into the seat beside her, sliding a milk bottle into her lap with one hand, and squeezing her shoulder with the other. She curls into him, fingers entwined, and shuts her bleary eyes.

Sayumi, twisting one of her curly hair around her small fingers, explains, "Adam's barely eighteen. He's always been the kid brother of our gang. Yuri and me used to babysit him, back in the day."

"Where are his parents now?"

"David-san got the news and is traveling back from a Red Shield meeting in Beijing. Likewise with Julia-san and Ezra."

"Ezra?"

Moments like these, Saya longs for a social cheat-sheet. Something to shuffle in her mind's recesses, so she is up to speed on her family's complex new world, their complex new networks. Having to ask questions about every name dropped, every anecdote shared, makes her feel like a lost tourist—or a pest.

Then Yuri says, "Ezra is the middle one. Twenty-five, a scientific prodigy, and a total mommy's boy. He was out at a conference with Julia-san in Tokyo. But they've cut it short and caught a flight back. We're still waiting to hear from Dee. She might be in Caracas, or—"

"I just flew in."

The approaching voice belongs to a young woman in a white tank-top and combat fatigues.

Tall and incredibly well-built, her suntanned skin is stretched over cultivated muscle and sleek curves. She wears no badge or insignia. But at her throat, a red-crystal cross hangs from a dark chain. Her hair is dirty-blonde with paler streaks, clipped short in a style as chic as it is militaristic. Her face too, for the lean angularity of its jawline and cheekbones, is attractively feminine: full lips, straight nose and dark lashes over intelligent blue eyes.

A deep cicatrix—year-old, ribbed and pinkish-brown—slashes from her breastbone to her right shoulderblade. A battle-scar from a Chiropteran's claws.

Strangely, it is the scar, and her cross, that allows Saya to make the quantum leap of association.

" _You're_  David and Julia's eldest?!"

The woman raises an eyebrow. "I also have a  _name_."

"Which is…?"

"Deidra. But call me—"

"Dee. Or else she'd kick your teeth in."

Kai steps up behind the newcomer. He smells like the night air: it swirls off his motorcycle jacket, the tips of his open-gloved fingers and windblown hair. The same scent circulates off Dee's clothes. Saya guesses he must have picked her up on his motorbike.

Yet there is something about the juxtaposition of their bodies, apart yet not, that is... odd. She can't quite say what it is.

Shaking it off, Saya stammers, "I-I thought—I don't know. That Mr. David and Ms. Julia only had boys."

Dee snorts, "My Dad's dream come true. But out popped a bouncy, bawling, eight-and-a-half pound me."

"Don't listen to her!" Sayumi gripes from the bench. "Her Dad's totally  _gaga_  over her! He got her a Ducati for her twenty-sixth birthday!"

Dee rolls her eyes. "Let it go, Yumi."

"Like Hell! You  _know_  I had my eye on that baby."

"I got the Ducati. You got my right-hand-man. We're even."

V, sprawled on the bench, sinks lower as if concealing his massive bulk from view.

Kai scrubs a weary hand through his hair, before elaborating to Saya, "Yumi met Vincente through Dee's unit."

Dee smiles with one side of her mouth. "For which Kai's never forgiven me."

"And never will! That  _uumaku_  is a crappy influence on Yumi."

"Y'all better stop talking about me like I'm not here," V grumbles, even as his expression suggests an ardent wish not to be here at all.

Sachi, in a bland murmur, his eyes on the ingredients label of Yuri's milk bottle: "You could, umm, make yourself useful and fetch everyone fresh snacks from the cafeteria?"

"Who asked  _you_ , asshole?"

"He's right, you useless lug!" Yumi leans over the bench and swats V's shoulder. "Dee must be starved after her flight. And I haven't eaten in hours!"

"Let Sachi get snacks. Why should  _I_  go?"

"Because I've ordered you."

The attitude switch is immediate: a Pavlovian realignment of muscles as the big man swings his legs off the bench, standing quickly, efficiently, before jogging off toward the cafeteria.

Marveling, Dee watches him go. "I could barely get that stubborn POS to  _shower_  when I was his CO."

Yumi examines her chipped black nail-polish. "You were his CO. Not his Queen."

"Good thing I still pull rank over both of you."

" _Ugh_. Don't remind me."

"Pull rank?" Saya glances from Dee to Yumi.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Kai mutters, "Dee is the new David, as of last year."

" _What_?"

"You heard right." Dee's dry humor drops away, replaced beneath a sheet of businesslike steel. She offers a hand. "Deidra Silverstein. Though I prefer Dee. I apologize for not being at your Awakening, Otonashi-san. There was a hassle in Venezuela that I wanted to handle personally."

"'Hassle'?"

"Chiropteran nest. Isolated incident, by the looks of it. Nothing to worry about."

"I—I see."

They shake hands. The young woman's grip is calloused, strong. It reminds Saya of David's. The resemblance to Julia is there too, in that bedrock of pleasant calm that can invert at any moment into scalpel-sharp focus. Saya likes her on sight—yet she gets a sense of watchfulness off of her; as if Dee is measuring Saya with a yardstick and trying to decide whether she falls a few inches short of expectation.

Which is a feeling Saya is used to.

Shaking it off, she says, "Yumi mentioned there are Red Shield scouts investigating the attack. Have they shared any developments with you?"

"Not yet. I plan to head downtown in person. But first—"

"First...?"

Dee lets her hand drop from Saya's. "I needed to check on my brother."

"Oh."

Dee steps past her to read the patient-status board, and Saya fights off that ever-renewing surge of extraneousness. It calls attention to how much time has passed. To how she no longer fits into this busy world she'd left behind.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she fights off a surge of frustration— _stop it, not everything is about you_ —and is startled when Haji touches her shoulder. She glances up questioningly. But her Chevalier simply radiates a quiet companionship.

Without moving his hand, he asks Dee, "Do you know why Adam was at the Bar Junket?"

Dee, accepting a Calpis bottle from Sachi, shrugs. "Routine Friday night. He was hanging with his buddies."

"No chance his injuries resulted from a brawl?"

"Not likely." Dee prods two fingertips at the neck of her bottle. "Mom called during my flight. The doctors told her there were two puncture wounds near his jugular."

Haji's fingers tighten fractionally on Saya's shoulder. Her own body is caught in a creeping chill—not dread but a bone-deep premonition.

She says, "Take me to Sakurazaka Street."

Dee stops mid-sip on her drink. Beside her, Kai frowns. "Huh?"

"You heard me. If it's a Chiropteran, no one will figure it out faster than me. Or  _find_  it faster than me."

"Saya," Kai cautions. "That's not a good idea—"

She cuts him off. "More people might get hurt. This will save us time, and trouble."

"Our teams can handle it. Once David gets here—"

"Mr. David should be with his family. Not out there."

"Saya." This is Haji. "Kai is right. If there is a Chiropteran, I can head out with Deidra and Kai. There is no reason for you to—"

"No  _reason_?"

Her Chevalier gives her a look mixed with concern and care. It is unfamiliar. The consequence of a newly shared bed? "Not in your present state."

Bristling, Saya shifts her body so his hand drops off her shoulder. "You're being ridiculous. You and Kai  _both_. It's a hunt for a Chiropteran—not an all-out attack."

Dee, meanwhile, sets down her bottle. She seems intrigued. "You want to head downtown, Otonashi?"

"Dee, stop encouraging her," Kai warns.

The young woman ignores him completely. In the charged lines of her body, Saya recognizes the concern for Adam that she's burying deep down, and her readiness to divert her energies into action.  _Another workaholic_ , Saya thinks, with a flicker of grim kinship that is mirrored in Dee's gaze.

"Let's go," Saya says. "We're wasting time here."

Behind her, Kai and Haji exchange glances. But she doesn't look their way. Tired of that constant concern in their eyes that they disguise as kindness—a kindness that is getting harder to bear. It isn't normal, at least not the kind of normal she can cope with.

Whereas the possibility of hunting a Chiropteran?

That is a  _normal_  she can cope with just fine.

* * *

Even at this hour, Sakurazaka Street is lit up like a carnival.

The rainfall has softened, layering over the colorful shopfronts and neon beer-signs like frosted glass. The roads are an oily soup of cars, motorbikes and pedestrians. Tourists with cheap umbrellas and oversized shopping bags. Men spilling out of the bars, laughing too loudly. The air smells sweet and sour at once: wet concrete, fried food, tailpipe fumes, and the heat of too many bodies packed together.

The last time Saya was here, thirty years ago, it was to stop Kai, then on a warpath to kill Forrest. Not much has changed since then. The place has gotten a makeover after the US' slipshod 'withdrawal' from the island in 2025. More family-friendly attractions in an effort to boost tourism: arcades, motels, coffee-shops, art stores.

But beneath that remains a seediness no amount of surface charm can conceal, like a whiff of decay hanging near a trash heap.

Together, she, Kai, Deidra and Haji edge through the thoroughfare. Dee leads the way, umbrella aloft, conferring with Red Shield operatives on a hi-tech earpiece. Saya never imagined she'd find an earpiece 'cool' but she almost wants to touch this one.

"We've got two of our guys by the DOJO Bar," Dee says. "Two more at Makishi Station, and another team at Asato. They're questioning possible witnesses. I've also got them triangulating the area for Chiropteran readings."

"Where did they find Adam?" Saya asks. "The Bar Junket?"

"That's right. By the rear entrance."

"Take me there. If there's a scent, maybe I can trace it."

"Understood."

Saya turns to Haji and Kai. "I need you two to check Makishi Station."

"Why there?" Kai asks.

"Because if it's a Chiropteran, it may be attracted to the crowds. Haji can help you track it."

Kai frowns. "Saya—will you be okay by yourself?"

" _Yes_."

She wishes her family would stop asking that. It is an impediment to recovering her sense of fitting. Like it's inappropriate for her to be out and about, doing anything more invigorating than shopping and sipping smoothies since the war is over.

"Saya—" Haji begins.

"Don't  _you_  start!" she snaps.

Her Chevalier blinks, before his face settles into blank lines. A sign of resignation, not rebellion. "We will contact you if we find anything," he says tersely.

"Good."

She turns away, avoiding his eyes, and the recent, disorienting thrill of intimacy. They've only made love—what?—a handful of times. Yet part of her feels girlishly a-flutter whenever he so much as looks her way. Her body makes it worse: throbbing each step from the sweet soreness of an entire night of being adored.

Except she needs to re-impress them both as an adult. As his CO  _and_  Queen.

She doesn't glance around when Haji glides off into the crowd. Kai follows, slower, with a parting glance not to Saya—but Deidra.

Which, again, is odd.

There is no time to ponder it. The other woman is already moving in fast strides down the main drag. Saya follows, dodging around a group of rowdy youngsters. Strange, that a few hours ago, Dee's little brother would've counted as one of their number. Now he is in the ER, its closed doors concealing an organic disaster over which none of them have any control.

Just like with Dad. And Riku.

Then she hears Diva's voice, right in her ear,  _Life is like that. Sometimes you're crowned the Queen. Sometimes your sister stabs you through the heart._

_Life is random chaos._

Shaking it off, Saya sprints until she is abreast of Dee. Curiosity compels her to ask, "The twins say there've been no Chiropteran sightings in Okinawa in years. Have you received intel that says different?"

Dee shakes her head. "Nothing. It's been peaceful for ages. I've read Joel's Diary, so I know proximity to your blood isn't enough to trigger a spontaneous transformation. It takes—"

"Diva's song," Saya says quietly.

"Right. Red Shield worked hard to seize all copies of it. DVDs, youtube uploads, MP3s, illegal torrents. Most are stored in our archives. Even if there's the odd recording of Diva on the interwebs, D67's effects are now so diffused it's impossible to turn anyone into a Chiropteran."

"Yet Adam had bite marks on his throat."

"Bite marks. And blood-loss." Dee's perturbed squint resembles David's. But her smooth voice is pure Julia—even if the snark is anything but. "If it turns out Adam was planning a drunken prank, I'll beat his ass woke."

"I'm sorry about this."

"Sorry for what?"

"You could've been at the hospital with him. Instead I asked you to bring me here."

Dee shrugs it off, a no-nonsense gesture that encompasses both  _No problem_ and  _Quit whingeing_. "It may sound weird, given who my mother is," she mutters, "But I hate hospitals. Too much thumb-twiddling. I'd rather be out getting something done."

Saya's mouth twitches in a reluctant smile. "Maybe you take after your father."

"Maybe." Dee lets off a wry huff of laughter. "The old man loses plenty of sleep over it."

"So why did he let you become a Shield?"

"He didn't  _let_  me." Her grin is darkly ironic. "The running joke is that it was inevitable."

"Inevitable?"

They stop at the intersection, the roads a shellacked red from the signals. The pedestrians are a heavy swarm of umbrellas at the sidewalk, waiting to cross.

"To be honest, in the early days, I wanted nothing to do with Red Shield," Dee says. "I wanted to be on my own. So I took a six-year enlistment with the USMC, kissed the fam goodbye, and spent the next few years on overseas rotation. For a covert op, we were assigned to a nuclear sub as riders to an insertion point. Routine stuff. I was an E-4 then. Studying to be a sergeant. Five hundred feet underwater, we suffered a malfunction. Or so it seemed. Pitch blackness, and emergency lights flashing everywhere. Then we heard the screams." Her expression shades. "Turns out there were Chiropterans aboard the sub. 132 crewmen, of whom seven became monsters. By the time they'd finished, there were four crewmen left. Myself included."

"God," Saya breathes. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine—"

Dee shakes her head. "We were lucky to survive. While the monsters ran amok, we locked the hatch of the maneuvering room. It kept them out. But we knew they'd break in eventually. That was the worst part. The waiting. Like being trapped inside a death-box." She exhales, measured. "At some point, a power surge blew out the main engine. Bits of the sub broke open; the seawater swept in and sucked the Chiroprerans out. Along with the bodies of their victims. Red Shield sent a retrieval team to get the rest of us out before the sub sank. Kai was on that team."

"Kai…?"

The other woman's eyelashes dip. For a moment, in the red patina of the streetlights, her face seems softer, almost girlish. "It was a favor to my Dad. He was on an operation in Nicaragua, and couldn't get to me. So he sent the next best fighter. I was never so relieved as when Kai first hauled us out of the water. Or so angry with myself for being so helpless." She glances at Saya. "I joined Red Shield a year later. Got to know your history, from Joel's Diary, but also from your family. Gotta say, it's weird to be chitchatting with you in person."

Saya bites her lip. "It's… a little weird for me too."

"I imagine so." Her eyes glint with a knowing levity. "Maybe that's why you're out here hunting for Chiropterans, huh? Going with what you know."

Saya smiles back, appreciating the effort. "We'll know if it's a Chiropteran in a minute."

They race along Kusai Dori. The rainfall turns the streets a luminous gray, like the bottom of the sea. In the gloom, the shopfronts and the headlights of cars pulse luridly like far-off lighthouses. Saya can see the Bar Junket rising into view: a bright glassed building flanked by a row of near-identical restaurants. The signboard—a cheerful green cactus in a sombrero—flashes in the downpour.

Hardly the place to picture a Chiropteran stumbling in—much less attacking someone. What if there was a mistake?

 _You won't know until you know_ , she thinks.

She and Dee take cover beneath the building's awning. The rain pelts down in a fury. Saya stares through the downpour at the glowing array of lights across the curvature of street. She can see into the distant windows of buildings if she chooses, but she isn't interested in using her Chiropteran eyesight.

She's interested in sounds.

Beyond the rain beating like the flutter of a hundred wings. Beyond the hallucinatory skirls of music and peoples' voices. Beyond the strident eddies of traffic: radios, engines, tires, horns. Her ears filter out the excess noise, amplify the encouraging.

Thirty years ago, the action was a clumsy hit-or-miss. Now, one war and countless hunts later, it is pure reflex.

_Is there a Chiropteran nearby?_

Rats scurrying in the back-alley. Ten yards. Sago palms dripping under the weight of rain. Twenty yards. A couple arguing over where to eat, huddled beneath the canopy of their umbrella. Fifty yards. Peals of laughter and off-key singing from a karaoke lounge. A hundred yards.

Nothing else. No roars, rising up in bright ellipses through the dark of a half-muted world. No familiar resonances signaling:  _Danger_.

"Pick anything up?" Dee asks.

Saya shakes her head.

"Wait until the rain slows. It might be easier then."

"The rain isn't an issue," Saya says. "I can hear their roars the moment they start. But there's nothing."

"We'll try a different spot. Maybe we can—" Frowning, Dee lifts a hand to her earpiece. Her voice segues from casual to commanding. "—Then spread out. There are areas where there could be more eyewitnesses. Or signs of violence. Check the back-alleys, the parking lots, the fire-escapes. If your sensors can't get a read, then log into the police feed for live reports—"

A frisson of déjà vu nearly makes Saya smile. It is like missions with David: his clean-scrubbed Old Spice aroma and steady professionalism somehow transposed into the feminine shape of this new handler, who smells of Lady Speed Stick and Parliament cigarettes, yet makes the same  _tch_ -ing sound of disapproval and wears a Smith & Wesson Magnum casually beneath her canvas jacket.

"—sent over Kai Miyagusuku and Haji to Makishi Station. Coordinate with them and scan the area for—"

Saya starts decrypting the airwaves again, ears tuned in, when her whole body snaps into alertness.

Someone is watching her.

Blinking, she glances around. Dee, in conversation with her subordinate, doesn't notice.  _Can't_  notice, because she hampered by human senses.

But every other pedestrian dotting the rainy sidewalk is human too. The gangly man hiding beneath his jacket as he sprints toward his car. The coterie of middle-aged American women clumping through the swinging doors of a hotel. The  _sarar_ _ī_ _man_  in a strident argument on his cellphone, standing by the half-open window in the office above. No one is paying Saya any attention.

Yet she is being watched.

Slowly, Saya edges beyond the awning. Looks left, then right: a full-sensor sweep for friends, or foes, or...

Family.

She senses family.

It is one of the gifts in a Chiropteran's possession—knowing when others are close. An ability that varies in degrees of accuracy from one Chiropteran to the next. It isn't as simple as a whiff of familiar scent, or the air abuzz with a particular sound-wave. It is baser than that.

The call and response of blood.

In Saya's experience, it works as a two-way circuit, so the connection sparks to life only when both parties are on the prowl. The emission can be downplayed, or switched off completely. She'd danced with Solomon at the Lycee ball, none the wiser about his identity; she'd spent days traveling with Amshel in the guise of Elizaveta, never suspecting a thing. Others, she's always sensed right off: Diva, indisputably. The Phantom, everytime he'd slavered for a battle with her. Haji, whenever she lets herself be guided toward the quiet intimacy of his presence.

Red Shield's scientists have termed it  _The_   _Primal Bond_. David refers to it as  _Haragei—_ the talent of a martial artist to sense killing intent. Lewis has jokingly nicknamed it  _The Force_. Kai, more than once, has called it  _Hella Creepy._

Whatever the case, the sensation is intensely physical.

Saya feels it now.

Her stomach drops. Adrenaline spikes her heartbeat. Her eyes dart everywhere, seeking out the source.

_Who is it?_

_Who is here with me?_

It isn't a cursory interest radiating toward her. It is a lethal energy: cold, dark, disturbing. It skims her surface and seeps into the secret core of her. Then a whisper comes to her ears, a slurred sibilation like a snake.

 _Saya_.

Gasping, Saya lurches back. Suddenly her whole body is caught in jackrabbiting tremors. A single word whizzes through her skull: _MoveMoveMove!_

She obeys without question. Deaf to Dee's startled yell. Deaf to the rain pelting down to soak through her clothes. Deaf to the shrill  _screeeee_  of tires and blatting horns as she leaps into traffic, nearly colliding with a car.

Blood beats in her temples, her arms, her legs. But the rhythm is off-kilter, as if someone else has commandeered its flow. She is running at full-pelt down the late-night streets. Not at ordinary speed, but at the full velocity of a predator. Dee calls after her, but the words are swallowed by the wind. Too far away and beyond return, her movements like flying but faster.

Running  _away_  from the voice? Or running  _after_  it?

_Saya._

_Do you want to play?_

The wind whips up to a force that makes her body shriek wherever it is touched. Her ears shriek, their bowls vibrating against the slashes of air; her bones shriek, their unflexing angles cutting through the space; her muscles shriek, burning from the shock of exertion; even her hair shrieks, whipping behind her like the tail of a serpent.

She doesn't know when she slows down. The stretch of a chain-link fence—rust and barbwire—leaps at her. She skids to a stop. The block around her is desolate, the windows boarded-up or broken on the old buildings that stand like ruined squares of cake between an alley overrun with garbage. In the distance, a train wails.

"Oh God." Her whole body shakes with her rapid heartbeat. She sinks to her knees. "Oh my God."

She doesn't understand what just happened. Has never experienced something like it before—a blind frenzy of instinct. Not since Vietnam, and its resurgent flashbacks. She'd thought she'd get over it: the jitters, the stupid panic-attacks.

If she'd acted like this in the war, at the barest threat, she'd be long dead.

_What's wrong with me?_

The rain glues her hair and skin to her clothes. She shivers, inhaling in the wet stink of the alleyway, and the salt distress of her own body wafting up from her collar. The neighborhood smells like a landfill. Worse; a drug-den. She needs to get out of here. To find Dee, and apologize for taking off.

Once the rain eases off, maybe they can head to Makishi Station. The scan at the Bar Junket was useless. Worse— _delusional_ , because what she'd sensed was impossible.

_It has to be._

_Otherwise—_

Then she feels it again. Someone watching her.

Saya goes perfectly still. The sensation is stronger than before. And this time she can pinpoint it exactly.

 _There_.

On the roof of a burnt-out building. The rain pounds down like a beating. She lifts an arm, eyes scrunched up against the downpour. The street is unlit darkness, but her eyesight is crystal-clear. High above, on the crumbling ledge of the rooftop, something crouches.

 _Someone_.

Saya tips her head back. Cold raindrops patter down; she blinks them away. The shape above her is human. Or human-sized. Except it is alit on the ledge with the grace of a black-bodied spider. The skull, half-shrouded in shadow, is cut from pale angles. She can't discern its features, or the color of the long hair. But she realizes the face is speckled with blood.

_Who—?_

Then she feels it, cold and paralyzing. _Thirst_.

It creeps down the crown of her head, across her skin, into her eyes, filling them with a hazy red. It sluices from her spine into her chest, pooling in her gut like dark dirty acid, so she burns and freezes at once. It radiates powerfully off the shape on the roof: a singular thirst, poisonously deep, impossibly malignant.

Like the aura of death itself.

Then the eyes meet hers. In the sheeting rain, they glow preternaturally blue.

_Diva?_

Saya's pulse trips on double-time. Hands opening and closing on empty air: expecting to feel the weight of her sword. But there is nothing there. She is alone. Unarmed. And eyes the same arctic blue as Diva's are cutting across the rain to hers.

"Heeeeey girlie."

She whirls.

From the corners of the muddy lot, strangers converge. Four in total, if her distraction—hallucination?—hasn't warped her senses.

Just a girl, all alone, ninety pounds soaking-wet…

She must seem like an easy mark.

The men melt from out of the dark, surrounding her. Nothing as high-level as the  _Kyokuryu-kai_ —Okinawa's Yakuza. Even with the absence of recognizable  _daimon_ , she knows that. Not  _bosozoku_ either—the rowdy motorcycle gangs whose raffish stylings Kai had once emulated. These men are scavengers. Lowest of the low.

From the distance, Saya can smell the alcohol on them, the staleness of sweat and the smoke from cheap Spice—the synthetic drug popular on the streets.

Their eyes rove over her, lewdly hot and hostile. Human—but trouble of a different kind.

"What're you doin' here, girlie?" the tallest one croons. "You loooost? C'mere. Lemme help you."

His companions snigger.

"Go away," Saya snaps, adrenaline loosening her tongue. "I don't have time for this."

"Aw. C'mooooon. You see anyone else around? You help us. We help you."

More laughter—full of dirty crawly things. The men are fanning out around her.

"I mean it," Saya says. "Fuck off."

Instantly, she thinks:  _Stupid_.

In her highschool days, Kai warned her once that in a confrontation with creeps, the smartest move is never to insult. You don't show fear—but you don't challenge, either, or act like nothing is happening. You allow your opponent the chance for a face-saving exit. If he takes it, good. If not, you attack. But trash-talk only sparks tempers and egos—thus escalating the danger.

Bluffs are no good unless you back them up with blows.

Saya doesn't plan to. She isn't a street-brawler—popping kneecaps and kicking out molars. If she fights, it is to kill. Except she can't risk human blood on her hands. Not after Vietnam.

Not  _ever_.

Her eyes flick again to the rooftop ledge. The rain hits it at a hard slant, splashing off the surface and dripping down the eaves.

But the strange shape is gone.

_What—?!_

A moment later a hand falls on her shoulder. She spins, just in time to see the pinkish tinge of alcohol to the tallest man's eyeballs. Then his fist fills her retinas: a sucker-punch that collides with the soft part of her cheek. Saya's head snaps back—less pain than shock. She tastes blood in her mouth, and smells dirt and smoke and smeared curry on the man's fingers.

Snatching a fistful of her shirt, he hauls her up.

"Bitch." It's less an epithet than a crude summation of fact. "Fuckin'  _yariman_  strutting in like she owns the place."

"Must be a real starved  _yariman_  to show up here," his companion says. "Starved enough to eat a dog's asshole."

"Or maybe any asshole, uh?" another guffaws.

"Let  _go_ ," Saya grits out.

The tall man hits her again. The belly this time, putting force behind it, his fist driving deep into the muscles so Saya's breath catches. There is pain now, a bright dynamite blossoming from her gut to the rest of her body. She grunts as he shoves her up against the chain-link fence. The other men crowd closer, the high salty reek of bodies in a lather of perversion.

"Real hot," one of them says, his fetid breath rising to her nostrils. "Bet she's real hot down there."

"You'll know once I'm done," the tallest mutters, dropping one hand to fumble with his zipper. "Gonna rip this bitch open from Hokkaido to Hiroshima."

The zipper's teeth, stripping the air, are unnaturally loud to Saya's ears. Her heart wallops in her chest, missing beats.

Over a century old, the survivor of an immortal blood-feud, and she's never dealt with something like this before. She's been threatened, she's been attacked. In her fights with Phantom there was always an impending chill of defilement, but it was never given the chance to occur. Haji was always on hand. Allies were always closeby. Her own strength was always unimpeded.

Even at the bleakest point in the war, she'd imagined herself dying. But she'd never imagined this.

_This._

Her whole body jitters with a tension that on another woman would be panic—the mind falling back into spastic denial or ahead into sickened anticipation.

But Saya is holding herself together against the red tide of instinct. Already it is igniting through her—filling her senses with the taste and scent of blood. Bright as an A-bomb, blinding and brilliant and beautifully easy: the urge to bite, bruise, break—

 _No_.

She can't— _mustn't_ —let go.

It's not a matter of irreparably hurting these men. If she attacks, she will  _kill_  them.

"You don't want to do this," she says.

One of them cuffs her across the temple, hard enough to make her ears ring. Growling, she struggles on reflex. Then a sudden stab of pain flares in her ribcage. It is the point of an old SOG knife, its blade dark yet bright. It digs into her flesh through the fabric of her blouse, a wet point of blood seeping out.

_Oh God._

This is going from bad to worse. But in Saya the upswelling of awareness isn't terror. It is  _rage_.

"Don't—for God's sake— _don't_ —"

Still holding the SOG knife in one hand, the man grabs her buttondown blouse in the other. He wrenches it open, tiny buttons skittering everywhere. She flinches as one of them pings her in the eye. Underneath, she has on a plain white camisole. The tall man seizes a handful of the blood-splotched fabric and yanks it upward, so forcefully that the cloth, bunching up under her arms, nearly lifts her off the ground.

It is a sick shutter-snap: a blur of blackness as the fabric is peeled off, branding the scene in her mind's eye—the men's faces hanging above her, teeth bared, eyes glinting, while around them the rainfall seems to change and darken and chill.

Then it is too late.

Saya barely feels the electrifying trickle of the rain on her naked skin. Barely feels the rough hands on her breasts. Haji is the only one who has touched her here, and the first time was a tiny jolt of panic that softened into buttery sweetness, her whole body melting for him in welcome.

This is an  _attack_ , and bloodlust slams into her at the moment of contact, zero to sixty.

The primordial wrath of a Queen.

_That's as far as you go._

Eyeblink-fast, Saya's body blazes and breaks free. Her right arm lashes out, a whiplike precision. A  _crunch_ , a wheeze, and the closest man drops, his larynx snapped.

In the next beat, she pivots, one leg flashing, a pale arc in the gloom. The kick collides viciously with the next man's ribcage. A muted  _crack_ , and blood gurgles from his mouth. His ribs have splintered, puncturing the lungs.

" _What the fuck_ —?!"

The remaining two men scramble back. In the drumming rainfall, their slick faces are gray with alarm. They've probably never felt fear—real, primal fear—in their quarter-century-plus of lives. Now all they can do is stare, with a transfixed muteness, at the girl considering them out of glowing red eyes.

" _Shit—shit—"_

" _Get away_ —"

Saya straightens slowly. She feels the coldness of the rain washing over her, but also a dizzying wave of heat. It's like the night in Vietnam: a supercharged surge filling her skull, threatening to crack it open, a mantra of pure instinct taking flight on octaves of climbing frenzy.

_Killkillkillkillkill…_

Slowly, she snaps her neck to drain her sinuses. For an instant she can smell the men's fear—familiar, fevery—but any emotion she feels in counterpoint is as undefined as the scenery itself, glazed beneath the downpour.

In her ear, Diva whispers:  _Life is like that. Sometimes you play the prey. Sometimes you're the hunter._

_Such beautiful chaos._

Then Saya  _lunges_ —and blood leaps into the air like the rainfall flowing in reverse.

* * *

  _How beautiful._

Tórir can't stop thinking it. He can't stop smiling. He can't look away.

He had meant to drive off in Ashleigh's car. To drain her blood, dump her body, then wear her shape so he could access her apartment for shelter and supplies. Yet something kept him circling the area. A peculiar blood-song, its pitch tantalizing as a  _hardingfele_ , its wild beauty straining at the heart behind his ribs.

The same heart throbs heavily now, each ventricle a plucked string of desire.

He has never seen anything so enthralling in his years. Not since watching the Red Queen on the battlefield.

_Beautiful._

In war, the Red Queen was always utterly fearless. It was a pure, blind, nearly lunatic fearlessness, born to a breed of creature with no conception of the emotion at all. A sensual fearlessness: he'd loved nothing more than watching the Red Queen glare down at a horde of enemies, and see naught in her eyes but the unflinching glow of victory. He'd loved nothing more than touching the Red Queen afterward, her body a wonderland of wounds, as she purred as sweetly as a kitten. He'd loved nothing more when she was rested and healed: how she'd mount him, take him into her, slick and hot, her face aglow with power. Power over him, over battle, over life and death itself. He'd loved most how she'd fold herself around him afterwards, replete and exhausted, licking the salt on his skin with a dreamlike tenderness.

A tenderness that hid beneath the truth of her existence: to embody war itself, its perfections and atrocities, its lows and highs.

 _Will you ever stop fighting?_  Tórir had asked her once.

She smiled, placing her forefinger against his lips.  _You may as well ask I stop breathing._

_But how far will you go? For what purpose do you or your sister exist?_

Her palm stroked his cheek.  _For balance. For crafting things of beauty from chaos. Until the human horde grow into their own._

_Grow into what?_

_Into creatures so deadly... that I am no longer needed._

_But—_

_Sssh._ The small finger upon his mouth again. _My end will come when it comes. Not before... and not after._

She'd often ended their conversations with that. Each time, she'd starved all of Tórir's answers and fed them at once.

 _Gods_ , how he'd loved her.

And— _gods_ —how he'd loathed her.

Loathed her for burning hard and hot as a star, in the center of universe that was otherwise dimensionless darkness. Utterly blind to the misery she and the Blue Queen spread: their armies cutting swathes through towns; homes burned down; children left fatherless; babies torn from mothers' breasts; soldiers fighting and dying for causes in their name.

The Queens had spawned suffering everywhere, echoing and reechoing, burgeoning together into a cacophony of human ichor.

As a boy, he'd swum through the depths of that ichor. A skill that had not come without practice—the choking swallows of terror, the breath-held torments of humiliation, the muscle-cramped fatigue of toil—but which had propelled his body through the dark sewers of his home to the bright surface of possibility above.

It was what he and his brothers had owed themselves. To break free from a life of futility and fish-gutting. To be more than the human scum floating like debris at the bottom of a pool, doomed to live out their lives in the blackest waters. People of no consequence, no dreams, no future.

They'd sworn to escape that. To swoop to the very heights of immortality, burning with a fire of their own kindling.

Burning so hot they scorched the Queens themselves to ash.

 _We succeeded,_  he thinks now.  _We succeeded—but only just._

Below, the Queen— _Saya_ —pounces on the two humans. One of them yells and slashes with his dagger. A line of blood spews from her bare shoulder. She doesn't even stagger. Her half-naked body, in the arrowing rain, glows like fire. The small pointed breasts, the ribs visible, the strong V of her back and the beads of spine like a pearl necklace sown beneath the skin. Her eyes are glowing red, and her mouth...

That  _mouth_.

Pink and plump, a pristine vulva hiding sharp white teeth. Like the entrance of Hekla, the Icelandic mouth of Hel itself. Tórir would walk across molten rock to lay one kiss on that mouth.

Which is a perfect replica of his.

_Is it possible...?_

Soundlessly, he creeps along the rooftop. The Queen—fierce little bitch—is swinging a barrage of blows at the human's body. Even from the distance, Tórir hears the bones  _crunching_.

The man's companion, flattened to the wet pavement, stares at the scene with a bovine stupidity. His wide eyes see what Tórir does—the feral fangs of nightmare set in a face as fine as porcelain. From this angle, the resemblance to Tórir—his lineage—is evident.

Is she, then, not the Red Queen's daughter—as he'd suspected—but the Blue's?

Impossible to credit. The Blue Queen had died in childbirth, despite his brothers' efforts to keep her up the spout. The Blue Queen was an irritant anyway. Always floating off into the ether, moony and vacant-eyed, even when she was being whipped to ribbons. Always staring at nothing, even when she was being fucked raw into the straw-mattress.

Besides.

The last Chevalier who'd bedded her wasn't Tórir.

It was his second-eldest brother, his favorite. Jøkil—with his tawny skin and hair like sun-warmed wheat, his smoke-roughened laughter concealing beneath a mind of ice-cold cruelty. Jøkil was the swordsman. Neither the biggest nor cleverest, but the fastest. Something in his eyes always vowed to finish what an enemy started. Even if it took a lifetime and left him in ruins, he'd keep swinging his sword.

The Red Queen had slain Jøkil in combat. Decapitated him like sticking a hot knife into a slab of butter.

The new Queen— _Saya_ —lets off a war-cry that races up Tórir's spine like fire up a candle-wick. Her small fist comes down on the human's face— _whack, crack, splat_ —and he goes still.

Tórir smiles. This girl reminds him of Jøkil. The speed. The fury.

But Jøkil was a warrior whose gifts were honed by necessity. This girl seems to have been born that way.

He is ready to reveal himself to her, when Saya goes still. Quiveringly still. The red glow fades out of her eyes, dulling them from a wildcat to a wood-mouse.

Then a cry escapes her—a sick cry of dismay.

She scrambles off the fallen human. Glances around at the others, felled like saplings in a storm. Arms and legs twisted at awkward angles, eyes slack and staring. Their blood fills the rainy air with a spicy copper scent.

The Queen—just a girl now—gasps. She looks so tiny and timorous, the rain gluing her hair to her skull, leaving pale tracks on her bloodsmeared body. Tórir hears her hitched breaths, as she tries to dial down her spooked heartbeat. He smells the salt of her outrushing tears.

_What on earth...?_

The dark sky sluices more rain, but the girl no longer burns in the downpour. She trembles. He has never known a Red Queen to tremble.

Never known her to wobble as the girl is wobbling—as if a gust of wind could knock her down.

Never known her to drop to her knees after a battle, or crawl to a corner and vomit.

Or stay there afterwards, hunched and horror-struck, weeping like a pathetic child.

_What is wrong with her?_

Frowning, Tórir peers over the rooftop. Part of him is tempted to leap down and rouse her. The other part bristles with disdain.

Foolish, to believe she is as the Red Queen was before her. Nothing in this new world is so simple.

" _Saya_!"

He smells the zenith of the rain, its heavy thunderheads and the sparky charge of ozone. He smells the rubbish in the alleyway, some fresh and some rotting, with an undernote of piss. He smells the girl, her fading wrath still perfuming the air, a tantalizing waft like the richest brew of ale. And he smells people.

New people. Two human. One not.

"Saya—are you all right?"

They come running to the mouth of the alleyway. The not-human reaches her first. Tall and dark-suited, his body possesses the sharpness of a  _skeid_  cutting through seawaters. He seems to skim across the pavement the same way: very light and swift, yet with unnerving solidity.

_That must be the 'Chevalier.'_

_Haji._

Quickly, he reaches the girl, kneeling beside her and taking her into his arms. They stay together, her sobbing and him silent, until the two humans catch up. A man and a woman, their heartbeats pounding with the rigor of exertion and the crackling of alarm.

"Otonashi, what the  _hell_  happened here?" the woman asks.

"Holy shit!" cries the man. "Saya, are you okay?"

The girl, Saya, weeps harder. Her mouth, exactly like Tórir's, is red and misshapen. Her cream-and-honey skin, exactly like Jøkil's, is ashen where it isn't smeared with blood. Tórir can hear the frantic workings of her body, magnified tenfold, that same blood-song reaching its highest pitch.

Fear. Shame. Sadness.

The emotions are unrecognizable to him. Always have been—though as a boy he'd learnt that if you tilted your head a smidge to the right, let your eyes go big and glossy—it indicated sympathy, sincerity, softness. It was one of the many skills he'd learnt, to blend with the human crush, and later to hide in plain sight within the Queens' court.

He suspects it will come useful here. As will his other talents.

Foremost among which is patience.

This girl— _Saya_ —is a paradox. A Queen to her marrow. Yet her power is squashed beneath weakness. A tamed wildcat mewling over the same mice she is born to devour.

_How pitiful._

Tórir's lip curls. There is more exploration to be done here. More questions that beg answering. But until he is satisfied—fully situated in this disorienting new realm—it is wiser not to reveal himself.

Wiser to bide his time, and watch, and learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next few chapters will begin exploring Saya's state of mind - and the changes that begin to manifest in hers and Haji's relationship - in more detail. I am shamelessly abusing Gothic Horror/Gothic Romance tropes, so expect a lot of allusions (and outright demonstrations) of 'insanity' and terribly heavyhanded symbols as the fic continues.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! Review pretty please!


	11. Haunted (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update is late, but an update it is! Apologies for the wait, but my schedule has become horrific again, which leaves less time/energy for fanficcing. Rather than rushing something half-assed out there, I'd prefer to take my time and craft the chapters properly so they're satisfyingly long, as y'all deserve! In the meantime your patience is appreciated, and your comments continue to be scrumptious pick-me-ups for bad days! :)
> 
> CW in this chapter for violence, gore, aftermath of attempted sexual assault. Picking up where we left off after Saya's rampage in the alleyway. Apart from that, expect disturbing dreams, angst, Tórir being Tórir, general creepiness - and, as a 'light-hearted(??)' segue, the carnival of catastrophe that continues to be Kai's love/family life. (Oh, Kai...)
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! Review, pretty please! :)

Rain and blood and sickness.

Saya's eyes are closed. But the vertigo of her senses is overwhelming. She feels each individual raindrop zigging slowly down her skin. She smells the carnage of the alleyway as a vibration of hundreds of cilia in her nostrils. She hears the inky air resonate with shouts and footsteps and downpour.

Her head pounds—how can it pound, when her body is dead-still?

"Saya! Jesus Christ! Are you okay?"

"What happened? Did those guys attack her?"

"Let's get her outta here first! Haji—c'mon. Get her up."

"Hold up, Kai! I need to check on the men!"

Saya's eyes stay closed. But she hears the back-and-forth of voices. Deidra and Kai. The former sounds wired, alert, scoping the scene for damage. The latter's words are shocked, rough. Saya knows how it must look. Her half-naked body, the blood-splatters, the fallen men. A hellish redux of the night at her highschool.

Except the only monsters are hidden beneath her skin.

"Saya. Open your eyes."

This is Haji. Quiet and calm—except there is a bruising strength in his arms encircling her. She doesn't care. The strength is a relief, because he never uses it against her. Ten times deadlier than those men, yet loyal as a wolf. Steady, sweet, safe...

She starts to cry harder, but out of love for him.

"Sssh. It's all right."

She feels herself covered. Haji's coat, folded around her like a blanket. The sensation of cloth against skin, the protection it denotes, is immediate. The fog in her mind clears; her eyes open, swimmy with tears.

Haji's face looms close to hers. A pale halo within dark tassels of hair, droplets of rain clinging to them. In his blue gaze is concern—and something darker.

"What happened?" he asks.

She shakes her head. Doesn't want to talk about it: the reek of unwanted bodies pressing in, the bloodlust that wrapped around her like a hot fist, the  _crunch_  of her own fists coming down, the sharpish odor of the men's blood.

Dead—all of them dead.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so sorry. I-I didn't mean to—I couldn't stop it—"

"Ssh. Easy, Saya." This is Kai. "You're okay. Everything's fine."

He takes her hands, squeezing the fingers that are sticky with blood. His touch is astonishingly warm, and so is he: a familiar corona of oranges and reds that radiate their own vitality, like a ray of summer sunlight.

"What happened?" he asks. "Tell me. It's okay."

She shakes her head again, lower-lip sucked between her teeth. Nausea is resurging; if she remembers the attack—theirs, hers—she might be sick.

_I didn't mean for this to happen._

_I didn't I didn't I didn't—_

"Call an ambulance," Haji says.

"Ambulance?" Kai's panic jumps another notch. "What—what's wrong with her?  _Jesus_ , tell me they didn't—"

"No. Tried to, but no." Low. Measured. "Those men are still alive."

" _What_?"

"All four of them. The pulses are weak, but there."

The words rock Saya to a semblance of life. Her eyes snap open. She is still in Haji's arms, a safe harbor against the storm. His heartbeat fills her senses. But it is overlapped by others. Not Kai's or Dee's. It is a fainter patter. _Four-three-two-one_ : the men's lives ebbing into the rainy air.

Dee, leaning over one body, touches her fingers to the neck. "He's right. Not a corpse."

"Not yet," says Haji. To Kai, "Will you take her?"

"Huh—? Yeah. Sure."

Saya feels herself swung up into the air. Her head drops against Kai's shoulder. His jacket has a strong smell: soap, sweat, rainfall, all of it strung together with the wonderful motes of fried-food that comprise Omoro itself.

Shivering, she clings to him. Her whole body feels impossibly heavy; it is like being drunk, or worse.

Through the rain, she watches Haji make his way to Dee. Together, they check the remaining men, get them straightened. One of them stirs feebly; his groan rides the moist air.

"Kill…kill you…"

His arm, angled in a twist, scrabbles beneath his shirt. Saya hears the rustle and slide of metal on cloth. The  _snick_  of a safety mechanism released. A gun materializes in his palm. An old-fashioned Ruger—a black-market souvenir so dated that it might be from the Operation Iceberg era.

The muzzle wavers in Saya's direction. Her heart skitters; Kai's arms tighten around her, his body instinctively torqueing to evade.

"Jesus  _Christ_ —!"

Despite the cacophonous echo of rain, the bullet firing off is deafening.

Saya sees the Ruger go spinning out of the man's hand. Howling, he clutches at his fingers. " _Ffffffffuck_!"

Kai's M1911 pistol is only halfway out of its holster. He'd barely gotten the chance to draw it. But Dee, both hands free, had drawn hers. The Magnum—snub-nosed, unlike David's—is still faintly smoking when she stows it back in her jacket. Her eyes are dormered, her body relaxed. But her voice holds a cold edge of menace.

"Don't do that again."

The man shivers, his assent needing no voice. Beside him, his companion—the tall leader—has begun wheezing in distress.

"Help... help me..."

_"You see anyone else around? You help us. We help you."_

Saya flinches on a wave of revulsion. Kai and Dee don't notice. But Haji does. It shows in his eyes, their pale blue darkening as they slew from Saya to the groaning man, then narrow.

"Kai?" His voice is a flatline—or illusion. "Question."

Kai's arms circle Saya tighter. "What?"

"I've forgotten. Does the average human require both kidneys?"

"No. Just the one."

"Why?" Dee asks. "Is his kidney busted?"

"No." Haji shakes his head. Perfectly calm—yet full of violent energy that is suddenly palpable. "Not yet."

Then his foot  _slams_  down on the groaning man's back.

The heavy wind isn't enough to blot out the shrill " _Reeeeeeeeaaagh_!"of his scream.

* * *

Naminoue Beach

1-25-11 Wakasa

Naha, Okinawa Prefecture

900-0037

"...Is she okay?"

"Yeah. Yumi and Yuri got her to sleep."

"That's good." A watchful pause. "Are  _you_  okay?"

"Tired."

"Want some coffee?"

"I'll pass."

Wearily, Kai steps into the kitchen. The villa is quiet, TV and radios shut off. The subdued glow of the hanging lamp at the island-counter casts a dim reflection on the bay window. In the monsoon wind, sago palms toss fitfully. It is still raining.

Dee sits at the table. A cup of coffee is cradled in both her hands, an unlit cigarette dangling between her fingers. Like her father—before he'd sullenly fallen into drink, then out of it—she is a teetotaler. No drugs, either. A savvy doctor-mother, and the death of a fiancé three years ago in a nightclub bathroom, his bloodstream poisoned with opiates, have left their lessons. Caffeine and nicotine are her only vices.

_The only ones David and Julia know about, anyway._

Dragging a chair out with his foot, Kai sinks into it, his body at a deliberately far-off angle from hers. "I'm guessing the twins will stay over," he says. "Give Haji a hand with Saya."

"That's fine. My teams have concluded their search of Sakurazaka Street."

"And?"

She nixes the question with a hand-wave. "No joy. Of the human or non-human kind."

"We'll keep looking tomorrow. Until something turns up." He glances at her. "What about you? Planning to head back out there? Or go to the hospital?"

"Hospital. Mom, Dad and Ezra have already arrived. Adam's condition has stabilized."

"Great. I'll drop you off."

"Kai—"

"No buts. I'll drop you."

By habit, he plucks out the zippo from his jacket. Dee leans in and lets him light her cig, inhaling with a furtive relish. She is blond-haired and fair like David, and her brows and eyelashes are a darker shade like Julia's. Yet her features are entirely her own.

To Kai, she just looks like  _Dee_.

After the war, the Silversteins had lived two blocks away from the Miyagusukus. Dee, Yumi and Yuri had been friends since toddlerhood, growing up in the same five-mile radius, playing at the same park, attending the same schools, getting into the same scraps. Like a trio of baby chicks, they'd trooped in and out of the house in a flurry of laughter, two years old, then three, four, five.

Until Julia, having completed her multidisciplinary PhD, was offered a position at Berkley. The family closed up the clinic and relocated to the States. They'd kept in touch with Kai, but more distantly as time went on, old comrades fading out of each other's' orbits. David and Julia had popped out two more kids; Ezra, then baby Adam. Dee, meanwhile, had joined the US Marine Corps, choosing not to follow in her father's footsteps. Kai had gotten news of her impressive exploits from time to time. But their paths had never crossed.

Until, like a magnetic force switching polarities, the families were flung back together. When the US Navy's war-sub was attacked by Chiropterans near Kings Bay, Kai and his team were the primary Shields dispatched to the scene. He still remembers the first glimpse of Dee, when he'd hauled her out of the wreckage: white-faced and shocky, but otherwise on sturdy lockdown. She'd clasped Kai's hands in hers, awe shining starkly in her eyes, and breathed, " _Whoa_."

 _Whoa_  about summed it up.

In 2032, David decided he'd had enough of America. He asked Julia if she was willing to return to the Ryukyus. She and the children agreed. Dee was twenty-five at the time. Tough and smart, with the vocabulary of a dock worker and the aim of a Wild West gunslinger. She'd fast-tracked through Red Shield's ranks to earn her place as a force to be reckoned with on the frontline.

Kai, then stewing over his acrimonious split with Mao, was assigned as her mentor. From the start, they'd gelled well. There was something charmingly out-of-whack about this clever, unglamorized young woman who shared his fondness for children's books and 90s rock songs despite witnessing depravity of the bloodiest sort everyday on the frontline. She could disassemble firearms at uncanny speed and navigate firefights with perfect composure, yet her entire face lit up when she enthused about deep-sea diving or frozen-custard sundaes or motorcycle drives to the cliffs. She laughed at his dumb jokes and her smoker's rasp was beautiful.

Throughout their Red Shield missions, they'd been many things to each other. Teacher and student. Comrades. Friends.

Yet the roles were complicated by a deep-down chemistry on both sides. They'd kept it to themselves, and it had kept. Out of professionalism, guilt, and above all their mutual respect for David.

Until last year, on a mission to Rio. The attraction had turned sexual there: a red-hot current that had pinwheeled out of control, and even now is spinning Kai as he tries to catch his balance.

Dee's cigarette glows orange as she takes a drag.

"You weren't kidding about Otonashi's wild streak," she mutters. "Those guys will piss blood for days."

"If they can piss at all."

" _That_  is Haji's fault." Ruefully, she exhales smoke. "I've never seen him so mad."

"I have. Once."

Dee hesitates. "The night at Red Shield's HQ...?"

"Yeah." The memory leaves a bitter aftertaste in Kai's mouth. "Once was enough."

"Hey." Dee lays a hand on his arm. "Otonashi's  _fine_. Or she will be. You've said it yourself. She's gotten through worse."

"She has." Kai's shoulders lose an iota of rigidity. But his voice is flat. "That doesn't make it easier. This whole night just—"

"Sucks."

"Yeah."

Upstairs, it is quiet. Not like earlier, when he could hear Saya's sobbing, punctuated by Yumi and Yuri's murmurs. They'd peeled her out of her sodden clothes, wrapped her up in a giant towel and filled up the bathtub, before shooing him and Haji out. A two-girl taskforce Kai would've been at a loss without, and is deeply grateful for.

They've lulled Saya to sleep now. Kai can't hear their voices, and guesses they've dozed off themselves. He can't hear Haji either. But that's typical.

The Chevalier was broodingly quiet when they'd brought Saya home. Kai can't blame him. In the past, Haji was always intensely protective of Sayumi and Sayuri. Always escorting them after dark, cautioning them about never leaving their drinks unattended, their car doors unlocked, their social media too accessible. Cautioning them, too, that not all predators lurked in dim alleyways with blades hidden or fangs bared.

Maybe that's what's so challenging to Haji's composure, Kai thinks. The fact that Saya is in  _his_  charge, in a way even the twins aren't. He's seen the other guy take gunfire, claws, spikes, a toppling ceiling to protect her. But the idea of more commonplace threats evidently hadn't crossed his mind.

Or Kai's.

 _God fucking dammit_.

They've been trying to keep Saya  _safe_  since her accident. Safe from external threats—but also safe from  _herself_. It's exactly what was so unnerving about tonight. Not the near-assault, but the reminder of Saya's destructive capacities. A destruction that  _is_  Saya.

The Chiropteran Queen, as David once reminded Kai, who can't be boxed off.

"... asleep where you sit..."

Kai blinks out of his abstraction. "Huh?"

Dee frowns. "I  _said_ : do you want the rest of my coffee. You're falling asleep where you sit."

"Uh—no. I'm good."

She cocks her head, seemingly undecided between suspicion and amusement. "That's the second time you've turned me down. Is it the coffee? Or the fact that  _I_  made it?"

"We-ell." Kai forces a crooked smile. "Now that you mention it..."

"Asshole."

"Hey, I've tried your brew, Dee. You may like hair on your chest. But I'm good with what I've got."

She slugs him and he cringes. " _Hey_."

"Talk shit, get hit."

"Well, at least it wasn't the nose. The nose in sacred." Kai rubs his arm. An idiotic sense of machismo always compels him to act like it doesn't hurt too bad—when in fact Dee's punches are like shot-put balls at warp speed. It would be stupid to goad her further.

Then again, you should never pass up a chance for fun. Bad for the heart and all.

His wince deepens into a grimace. "I think…"

Dee glares over the rim of her cup. "What?"

"I can't… feel my arm."

"Cut the crap."

"'M serious." Gulp, gurgle. "Havin'—trouble breathing."

Wary, Dee sets the cup aside. "You'd  _better_  not have a stroke."

"Whazzat?" He pushes his words out as if there's an anvil on his chest. "Can't… hear you..."

"Kai..."

He lurches dizzily in his seat.

" _Kai_!"

He falls sideways—then straightens at the last moment in a slinky-snap realignment of muscles. " _Got-cha_."

He can  _see_  Dee's temper flare in the familiar flush climbing up her hairline. "You. Son. Of. A.  _Bitch_."

She elbows him,  _hard_ , and this time he drops in a guffawing sprawl across the tiles, half-propped against the island-counter.

"Sorry! Sorry!" He wheezes. "Just—the look on your face—"

"Gonna make you  _have_  that stroke!"

"Ryukyuan men don't have strokes."

"You'll be the first!"

She swings at him again, and he catches her fist.  _Too slow_ , he wants to tease. Then he becomes aware of her fingers in his—papered with calluses but amazingly fine-boned. Up close, she smells of butterscotch. Not perfume; she isn't the type. Just hand-cream from the fancy set Yuri got for her birthday last year.

Their eyes meet and the pause prolongs itself weirdly. Letting her hand go, Kai straightens. "Watch the cancer stick, Dee. Gonna burn off your fingers."

"Huh?" Dee orients on her cig, the ash dangerously long. " _Shit_."

Tapping the dregs in the kitchen sink, she stands there a moment, gazing out the window. The line of her back is taut. A tension that Kai knows is about Adam and tonight's disaster—but also about Rio, its truth expanding between them in an irreversible way that Kai struggles to negate with black humor.

He's always hated deceit of any kind. He's never had a secret—relationship? fling? thing?—such as they are having. But if he owns up to it, what will they say? David, who's been like a father to him after George's death. Yumi and Yuri, who see Deidra as a sister. And Saya, who even now makes it hard to believe thirty years have passed, whose face takes him back to a time when she was the complex center of a war, and of his every thought; even during the disaster with Mao. With every girl after, in the early days—without question.

Kai has grown up since then. Grown older, wearier. He's moved on.

But Saya's return is an unsettling reminder that the past is never gone. It's always there, acting as the hinge to every trauma and tragedy.

What if this thing with Dee proves to be both? They are on the same wavelength, but that doesn't erase their age difference. He's always derided the way men his age have stupid flings with younger girls. It's a predictable pattern: clandestine meet-ups and raunchy sex, midlife crises versus daddy issues. It'll last a month, maybe two. Then, the sex running out like a tap shut off, they'll have to turn to conversation, which dries up even faster. At which point they'll break it off: he for work/family, she for a younger man, maybe with tattoos like Vicente's or a guitar like Sachi's.

Maybe that's reducing it to its crudest components. But he has to be realistic. He couldn't bear for his friendship with Dee to crash and burn because of this mistake.

Except it doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels like a  _miracle_. Their long motorcycle drives, clowning around, inside jokes, wryly exchanged-glances, all the antics of crushed-out kids—he'd never experienced even as a teenager.

She makes him happy just by  _being_ —a happiness that is like coming back from the dead.

"You keep zoning out," says Dee. "What's eating you?"

"N-Nothing." He clears his throat. "Look, I'm gonna check on Saya and the twins. Then I'll take you to the hospital."

"Kai." Dee touches her knuckles to the kitchen counter, a not-quite-rap. "We should talk. To my parents, I mean."

"Dee—"

" _Or_  to each other. You've put up a giant testosteronic wall since—"

He winces. "I didn't mean to. I just—needed time to think."

"Uh huh. You. Thinking." Dee keeps her face impassive while her eyes mete out a blue wryness. But beneath that are so many other things. Sadness, hope, a prideful expectancy.

Love.

 _Don't make me ask for it_ , her face says.  _Just tell me._

"Dee—"

He shuts his eyes. Shuts them tight and gathers her into a hug, his cheek pressed to her shorn hair. Her body is warm and obliging, which is odd seeing as she is so often tough, untouchable. Kai is the only one lucky enough to do this without getting his kneecaps shot off.

Then her arms pass around him, squeezing tight. His eyes burn, and he is ready spill everything on the gut-shock of emotion passing over him, because if it can't be tonight of all shitty nights, it doesn't deserve to be at all.

Then—"Kai."

They spring apart.

Haji is there, looking grave and awkward. "Red Shield called. About the men."

"Yeah?" Kai draws himself up. A youth of delinquency, two decades of balancing premature fatherhood with adult responsibilities, years of bloodshed on the frontline, a string of failed relationships, all help to keep a tight lid on his expression. But never as perfectly as Haji's. "What'd they say?"

"They will live. The organization is asking whether to contact the police."

"They  _should._ " Dee puffs on her cigarette with an angry flourish. "A clobbering is no excuse to let them walk."

Haji shakes his head. "They will never be walking again."

"Oh."

Again, Kai is reminded of David's warnings: how a Queen's instincts are always in conflict with her rationality. But it's a reminder, too, that it could've been worse. If the night had ended differently, with one brutalized sibling and a ring of dead bodies, like Riku on Red Shield's ship...

Snapping back, Kai swallows. "Maybe we should hash it out ourselves? No reason to upset Saya."

"Agreed," Dee says. "She's been through enough tonight."

Haji shakes his head. "Saya's actions. Her choice."

Typical, that cold cloak of honesty. But off-putting, too. It takes Kai back to the days when Haji was a stranger. More than that: a  _danger_. The guy who'd blown into their lives and ruined everything. Brought out something monstrous in Saya; turned her shadowy and secretive. She'd floated further away from the family as the days passed, then broken off completely after Riku's death.

Haji was the only one she'd kept close.  _Too_  close, the two of them tangled in a codependent knot, almost as one body.

Kai admits to wondering—too often, in the war—exactly what there was between them. They were never kissy-goo-goo, but they'd always stopped talking whenever he came into the room. With Haji, Saya always appeared a little  _off_ : the shades of her eyes darker, the tones of her voice quieter, her very  _Saya_ -ness pared down to a blade's edge.

With Haji, she wasn't an ordinary girl. She was a warrior queen conferring with her knight.

It hadn't made Kai dislike Haji any less.

Today, he can look back on those days with wiser eyes. He understands his antipathy of Haji was off-base. The Chevalier was only fulfilling his duty, same as Saya.  _Suffering_ , same as Saya, too. His remoteness wasn't a character-flaw but a defense-mechanism. Underneath, he was more soft-serve than polar icecap. A guy who watched  _Xena_ reruns and liked spicy tofu recipes and had the entire  _Discworld_  series in his bookshelf.

Over the years, Kai has grown to respect the Chevalier. Raising the twins together has given them something in common besides the war. Made them buddies—or is buddies-in-law the better term? There've been plenty of emergencies when Kai was grateful for a practical, patient presence: someone who didn't sulk, or talk endlessly, or burst into tears. Someone who could convey  _Shit, that sucks_  with nothing but a  _Hm_.

Another guy, basically.

But moments like these, the difference between him and Haji stretches into an unbridgeable gap. After all these years, the Chevalier may seem like a familiar fixture. But, like Saya, he will always be unknowable.

Dee stubs out her cigarette hastily. "It's late. I'd better get back to the hospital."

"I'll drop you," Kai says. "Let me grab my jacket."

Haji nods. No:  _Thank you for coming._ No:  _Let me know_   _if Adam improves._

Also typical. Gentlemanly, Kai knows, doesn't equal genial in Haji's lexicon.

But the Chevalier sees them to the door. Accepts a parting handshake from Dee, and a clap on the shoulder from Kai.

"Call if you need help with Saya," Kai says.

A redundant offer. Who understands her better than Haji? In Kai's memory are snapshots of a different Saya: bubbly and bubblegum-sweet. Not the new one (the real one?) with her disconnected smile and eyes like black-noise, whom Kai loves to pieces but no longer understands. Their lives have diverged too completely.

Not that it matters. Saya will always be  _Saya_. Family, like the twins, and Dad, and Riku.

And Dee.

_If David doesn't shoot me through the head once he finds out._

Then Haji says, "I will let you know."

Completely unexpected, the flat statement sinks like a pebble into water, ripples of surprise spreading through both Kai and Deidra. The Chevalier shuts the door without a goodbye. Yet Kai is left feeling like he's watching a man returning to a haunted house.

Someplace once familiar, but with ghosts now residing in its superstructure.

Remnants of a past not yet buried.

* * *

Saya is sweating.

Not the ordinary sweat. She is sweating in bloody gushes, like her insides are leaking through her pores.

Blood seeps from every part of her, warm and thick. It covers her skin, slicking it red. It smothers her nose, floods her eyes, her mouth. It tastes of copper—metallic, salty. She chokes on it. The blood refuses to stop flowing.

Saya opens her mouth, tries to scream. Blood gurgles from her throat. She suffocates, trying to breathe—and chokes on more blood.

God, so much blood.

Its scent, its taste, its very texture are unbearable. It is thick and hot, scalding her skin. Frantic, Saya tries to scream again. But a hand claps over her mouth, cutting the sound off. Eyes wide, Saya stares at the hand. It is covered in blood: dried and cracked, so the skin resembles a dragon's scutes.

Terrified, Saya throws the hand off. Another red-crusted hand catches her shoulder. It begins dragging her away. Saya jerks the hand off, but it grips her tighter.

" _Let me go_!" she screams, blood bubbling from her lips.

She tries to stumble away. But now other hands are everywhere. Grabbing at her shoulders, clutching her waist, her arms, her ankles. She flails wildly.

" _Let me go_!" Her sight is blurred by the thick blood in her eyes. " _No! You can't do this! Let me GO_!"

But the hands keep yanking at her. Tugging her backward.

" _No_!" Saya cries. " _Leave me alone_!"

Merciless, the hands drag her. She swoops downward, plunging through blackness, struggling against the hands with all her might.

She is struck with ice-cold water, the shock excruciating. The water gags her, blinding her eyes. Icy fluid gushes down her lungs. Saya chokes, her lungs aching—struggling to breathe. Around her, the darkness thickens. She thrashes in the water, drowning.

She has to breathe—she is going to die!

A hand catches her foot. Saya kicks it and struggles upward. Another hand catches her ankle. Her fingers clawing in desperation through the water, Saya squirms out of its grasp.

As she breaks the surface, cresting on cool air, she finds herself treading through inky ocean. The glowing halo of a red moon floats overhead; it casts ripples of metallic pinkish light in the water.

At the edges of the ocean, figures rise in plumes of smoke. Their eyes glint blue and red and they speak in a rushing susurration, every language recognizable yet inverted, the words beyond human comprehension. The sound is deafening, a juddering pressure in her eardrums, a corkscrewing coldness down her spine. Dark hands reach for her; eerie laughs wash over her.

She tries to wrest the hands away, to cover her ears. But someone grabs her up and shoves her to cold damp floor, pinning her wrists.

" _I'll kill you_!" Saya screams.

Then she sees that it is a girl. Pale, nearly sepulchral, long black hair framing her face. She recognizes Diva—and her rage and terror melt into gratitude.

" _You're alive_ ," Saya says, tears in her eyes.

She looks up at Diva, her blue gaze enclosing her in a soft bubble. " _Diva—I'm sorry for everything. Please forgive me_."

Diva smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

But her hair is whitening into dry squiggles. Her face grows skeletal. The eyes are rotting, falling from their sockets. A distended black tongue lolls out from between scummy, wetly glistening teeth.

It is no longer Diva, but a fetid corpse. Its skin is grey and pruned, white larvae crawling everywhere.

Saya screams, seeing that the creature is pinning down her hands. She struggles to free herself. But the corpse leans closer, coming down on top of her. It seems animated with a crazed strength. Thick black sludge drips in a long spool from between its lips.

No—not sludge. It is a snake, swaying and hissing, its scales incandescent in the moonglow.

Hypnotized, Saya stares. The fear has sunk so deep inside her that it feels like part of her body: the bitter-blood taste in her mouth, the cold judder behind her ribcage, the hot beat against her temples.

The corpse moves closer, gripping her cheeks with both hands. When Saya realizes what it wants to do, wild adrenaline grips her. Her struggles grow frenzied.

The corpse presses its cold lips to hers.

Saya clamps her mouth shut, trying not to scream. But the pressure of the corpse's weight against hers, the bite of its skeletal fingers, the inrushing smell of its body, rank and rotten, force a gasp she can't hold in.

At once, the creature pries her lips open. The snake sinks into her mouth.

Saya releases a muffled scream of revulsion. There is pressure, friction, a sizzling line of pain: the snake has broken loose and is burrowing its way inside her.

She tries to struggle, but the snake is in her depths now, a whispering undulation. Its venom percolates her bloodstream. Nausea churns in her gut. She retches, struggling for air. But the corpse remains on top of her, a suffocating weight.

_No. No. Stop._

_I'm going to die._

Her body heaves as if in death-spasms. Inside her, the snake devours whatever it touches. It is like having a gaping mouth inside of her, ringed in pincer-teeth: chewing everything to pieces, inside-out.

Caught in the eye of terror, Saya feels the snake draining the blood from her veins, swallowing her lungs, her heart, her mind and other organs. The transformation is slow and excruciating; it doesn't stop until the snake has hollowed her out from within, her skin becoming a papery chrysalis, flaking and peeling, her psyche overlapping with the snake's—futile misery and hellish hunger—until she isn't sure whether the snake dwells inside her, or she inside the snake.

Only then does the corpse release her. But on its shoulders sits not the desiccated head, but a stranger's.

Red-haired and impudently handsome, his rosy lips are peeled back from his sharp white teeth—not a smile but a horrorshow leer. His mismatched eyes burn into hers.

One red. One blue.

" _I crawled out of Hell just to see you_ ," he says.  _"I am here to give you a taste_."

And Saya sees grotesque shapes heaped on either side of him. Mounds of severed heads, the domes of their skulls cracked like eggshell, their eyes milky in dark sockets, faces slack in melting folds of skin. Haji. Kai. Sayumi. Sayuri. David. Julia. Dee. Joel.

Diva.

Saya stares at their dead, empty faces. Stares at the glossy marbles of their eyes.

She screams.

* * *

Saya wakes with a jerk.

Her heart beats like a tom-tom. The bedsheets are damp with her beading sweat.

 _"_ Oh God."

For a moment she isn't fully situated in time and place: sense-memory pops and crackles through her, past and present. The stormclouds draining the color out of the sky, so only black is left. Haji's cool hands on her body, his cool mouth between her thighs. An alleyway shot through with the acrid smell of blood. Diva shriveling to a corpse, a ziggurat of skulls piled behind her.

And the perplexing sight of a snake, black as an oil spill and gliding forward inch by glossy inch...

Panting, she sits up. The nightmare fades into the comforting aroma of vanilla. Like a grain of sand sliding down an hourglass, she returns to the knowledge of where she is. Haji's room, back at the seaside villa. No hissing snakes: the slow susurration is only Sayumi and Sayuri, curled up in bed with her, breathing in their sleep. Yumi's heavy head is pillowed on Saya's shoulder; Yuri has a thin arm flung across Saya's belly.

The dream is far away. So is Diva. Thousands of miles and thirty years away.

 _Saya_.

The sound creeps past her ears and her body seizes up. Fear echoes the dream's sensations: a snake twisting restlessly in her gut.

_Saya, please…_

The voice is pure honey: sweet, and inviting. She'd heard it the night of her accident months ago, luring her from her cozy bed, and into the chilly night streets.

_Please._

_Come with me._

Now, as then, Saya obeys. Quietly, not daring to disturb the sleeping twins, she swings her legs off the bed. Her feet barely seem to touch the cool ochre floorboards; she almost imperceptibly floats as she walks through her room.

At the window, the stormclouds go brightly incandescent with lightning. The stained-glass mosaic is a riot of colors—aquamarine, emerald, magenta. The bruises splotching her attackers were the same colors, Saya remembers. Bruises, and broken bones, and heartbeats out of whack in a portent of doom.

The memory makes something inside her clench tight, mind and body a clammy fist.

_Don't be afraid, Saya._

_I'm with you._

She drifts across the floorboards, cat-soft. The voice floats past the room and through the sitting area. She follows it. No one comes out to intercept her. She can't sense Haji anywhere. Can't hear Kai, or Deidra. It is almost as if a somnolent spell has fallen across the villa.

Blinking groggily, Saya stares around the darkened space. Ahead, her bedroom door is ajar. Just a half-inch. On the other side, four slim fingers curl around the edge. She sees a sliver of a face in the gap, one big glowy-blue eye.

"Diva...?"

The name drops from her lips before she can stop it.

Laughter chimes from behind the door, impossibly sweet. Then the face and the fingers slip away.

Heart galloping, Saya rushes to her door. "Diva?"

The tinkling-crystal laughter answers her again. The kind of laughter Diva used to make when Saya would read her fairytales by Perrault and Straparola, sitting by the door of her tower.

 _This isn't possible,_  warns a voice in her head. A different voice, cool and precise. Almost like Haji's.  _Diva isn't here. Your mind is playing tricks, Saya._

She knows—yet doesn't. That's the killing joke.

Diva is gone, yet she is everywhere Saya looks.

Blindly, she stumbles into her room. The bed is as she and Haji had left it, after getting the phonecall from Kai. The sheets made up with crisp precision, the corners fitted under the mattress. Haji's style, not hers. Her Chevalier's innate neatness comes through even in the way he strips and replaces the linens after lovemaking.

Glancing around, Saya tries to moor herself. At the window, the rain falls in watery brushstrokes. She hears the rustle of tossing sago palms, and the far-off sibilation of wind. Shapes—Diva-sized—seem to coalesce in every shadow, every play of light.

But they are all tricks of her imagination. Her sister is nowhere in sight.

_You already knew that._

Scrubbing the heel of her palm against her eyes, Saya steps into her room.

And freezes.

In the gilt-framed oval mirror of her dresser, the reflection peering at her is unfamiliar. Or—no.  _Too_ familiar. With her streaming dark hair and white cotton nightgown, her skin palely luminous in the shadows, she  _is_  Diva. She can't see her own face, yet she can, as if her sister's spirit has filled her like the snake in the dream, coiling behind her eyes and the contours of her body, fitting as a second layer beneath her skin.

The reflection captures it perfectly: Diva and Saya, Saya and Diva, their lovely daughters asleep to the tinkling echo of rainfall...

 _Stop it,_  Saya thinks.

She doesn't understand what is wrong with her. The visions and voices, the fits of disconnection... In her most self-indulgent moments, she's told herself they are the residues of a brutal past. At her most self-censuring, she sneers at herself, loathing her own weakness.

_It's all in your head._

_The sooner you accept that, the better._

Deliberately, she opens her jewelry box. It is the ormolu one from the Zoo, hand-crafted and antique. The night-glow plays over the trinkets inside it. No jewelry, but the sepia picture of Diva and Joel, smudged stiffly at the edges with her blood. Nestled next to it, a heavy chunk of stone.

A piece of Diva herself.

Carefully, Saya lifts it out. The red tints within glow, moving in hypnotic flickers. She nearly smiles—not because the stone makes her glad, but because it seems the most solid part of her world. The only thing that is  _real_.

 _That's because it_ is _real._

Diva is gone. She isn't here, isn't with Saya, isn't anywhere. There is no snake, no voice in the night. Saya is dreaming it all.

Except that doesn't explain why, even awoken from sleep, it feels as though the nightmare has barely begun.

In her ear, Diva croons, silky as rain:  _I miss you._

Saya's throat works, achingly tight. She doesn't know when she'd begun to cry. Maybe it was all along; her face is wet, tears squeezing from the corners of her swollen eyes.

 _I know,_ she thinks.

_I miss you too._

* * *

1 Chome Kitamae

Chatan, Nakagami District

Okinawa Prefecture 904-0117

_I want to see her again._

Lying back in the bedroom once belonging to Ashleigh, music tinkling through the air, Tórir smiles.

He'd made sure to dispose of her body meticulously. Parts scattered across the city, so the modus operandi could not be pinpointed to a...  _Chiropteran_. She'd been a good mouthful, but it was the freedom to wear her shape that Tórir was after. To have access to her memories, her car, her credit card.

Her home.

The apartment, one of the many in a low-lying, white-painted building in Nagata, suits his purpose. Shelter. Privacy. Anonymity. At the window, with its half-mangled blinds (he couldn't figure out how to work them), streams of rain splatter the glass, monochrome streaks of gray and blue.

Watching them, Tórir lets himself be lulled.

He's unprepared for the shifts this world has taken. Everything seems bigger, noisier. So many lights in the dark, so many new smells. The buildings are immense and hideous. Flat squares of concrete, tangles of wires and pipes. The roads are all black-and-white stripes, cars swooping across them with noxious spurts of fumes. The beauties of nature mean nothing to these creatures; they have papered them over with metal, concrete, plastic, sludge.

Yet the great impartial skies are as they've always been. As are the clouds darkening them, changing shape from diffuse softness to a gathering thunderstorm.

Music is as enlivening as it was in his day, too. He's found Ashleigh's collection of records by  _the New Viennese Philharmonic_. The waves of music— _The Fantaisie Impromptu_ , again—spread out like the golden shades of the dawn, their tiny atoms mingling with his inhales, swirling with his exhales, until the apartment itself is alive with the warm buzz of  _life_.

Tórir soaks in all these beauties, glad to be consoled.

As a boy, these were the solitary moments he'd most treasured. Elements that suited him as starkly as wind and rain and frost. He would stand by the shores in the twilight, alone, looking out at the emptiness of the blue horizon for a miracle which never came.

Until he'd seized his Wyrd by the throat and subjugated her to his will.

He'd grown up in a dingy fishing village in the Froyar. A slum-child with lice in his hair and dried shit on his feet, clinging like bilge to the docks where ships from foreign lands made port. The splendor of the Queens' court was as distant from his world as the stars.

Since the death of his father, Tórir had known only two constants: hunger and hatred.

The youngest of his brothers, he'd spent his days at the fish market, scrounging for leftovers. Sometimes, he would do odd-jobs for fishermen in exchange for a pail-full of oysters or seal innards. More frequently, kicked at and spat on by the sailors, he would creep through the dark alleys and pick their pockets when they lurched drunkenly from the taverns. At the end of the night, he and his brothers huddled together in their home, laying their winnings for their mother like stolen treasure.

And each night, she'd sigh, _It's not enough._

Not enough for a houseful of six growing boys. Not enough for the woman ostracized by the entire village—the wife of a traitor, executed by the Red Queen herself. Men spat and cursed at Tórir and his family wherever they went; others disdained to touch them with even the tips of their boots.

Not that it stopped those self-righteous cowards from paying his mother visits at night, cramming their dirty flesh into her orifices for a handful of coins. When she worked, she'd send Tórir's brother's out to play in the streets.

Only Tórir stayed behind. She would give him milk of maypop—purple passionflower—to put him to sleep while she worked. From the half- open door, Tórir would watch with groggy eyes while she let one brute take her from behind while she fellated the other. He would watch the debauchery in session, coins exchanged for acts of filth, the cries that sliced the air less manufactured  _amore_  than pent-up wails of misery.

But even with his body is a drugged-out drowse, his mind would race at lightning speed.

_There is more to our lot than this._

From daylight to midnight, he and his brothers worked tirelessly to improve their station. Ingratiating themselves with the villagers. Becoming apprentices to swordsmiths, fishermen, slavers, carpenters. Swallowing down insults, abuse, assault and answering only with smiles. Plying their trade, not as a shortcut to pay for a night's drinks, but as superlative specialties in its own right.

His eldest two brothers became swordsmen. The two after that, seafarers and slavers. The next two, merchants and cooks. And Tórir …

He became what is known as a  _Skrá_. A scribe.

From his days at the port, he'd picked up different languages from the traders. Goídelc—Old Irish. Gammelnorsk—Old Norwegian. Dönsk tunga—the tongue of the Danes. By age twelve, he had developed a rare gift for translations, and a rarer talent for runes.

Then his gifts earned him a summons from the  _V_ _ǫ_ _lur_.

They were the shamanesses of the village. The ones under the patronage of the Blue Queen, performing acts of magic on her behalf. He became part of their retinue, traveling the land and watching them offer spiritual advice, attend births, settle disputes, heal the sick, and bury the dead.

It was here that Tórir learnt how to unlock the secrets of men's and women's bodies. Here that he learned the double-edged nature of herbs to kill or cure. Here that he understood the importance of patience, of prevarication, of prose. And beneath that, the steeliest will and the chilliest heart necessary to transform a life of subjugation into self-sovereignty.

The Vǫlur were no benign crones. As handmaids of the Blue Queen, they were foretellers of prophecy. At night they danced to drums, went into trances and fucked whom they liked. One of them, a bright beauty of russet hair and quicksilver eyes, took a liking to Tórir—and later took him between her thighs. Afterward, at the shores of sleep, she sighed that a moment would come, on a day unheralded by fanfare or forewarning, when Tórir would be given an opportunity to not only escape his fate, but shape it to his whim.

 _Be ready for the moment,_  she said.  _Be ready to spill blood. To be reborn into a higher sphere._

Be reborn.

He remembers the beam of pale moonlight falling through the narrow leaded window and upon her smile as they lay abed. And in that moment he understood what he must do. Not serendipity but the final piece of a brutal exoskeleton that would carry him toward greatness. That night—in pale arms of a Vǫlur—the course of his life was set.

He waited until she fell asleep. He waited until the world was calm and still, to slip from her bed and gather up the silky sash from her fallen gown.

Then he'd twined it around her throat and strangled her with it, as easily as snapping a sparrow's neck.

Afterward, on her special sheets of vellum, he had carved out the decree that would propel him from the Vǫlur's keep and into the Queens' court. Vouching for him and his brothers as the most suitable to be conscripted into royal service.

The  _Blood Tax_. Paid in the form of future  _Blodprinsen_.

Chevaliers.

The night of the initiation, Tórir was taken under the Red Queen's wing more wholly than he'd ever been between the Vǫlur's thighs. In the celebratory glow of torches she rose above him, her skin pale as a harvest moon and her eyes a slice of fire. Full of secrets, yet so open and trusting. Taking him deep, deep inside of her, hot as the blood in her exquisite veins, on her lips, down his throat.

It tasted like death. It tasted like birth.

He'd feared that she would learn about his scheme. Find him out through the secrets of his blood. Queens could foretell a man's future and glean his past with barely a bite, after all. But he needn't have worried. The Queens imbibed not the minutia of past and future misdeeds, but their emotions and after-echoes. They took the measure of a man by the purity of his heart.

And Tórir's was so vacant as to be sterile.

 _Sea air,_  the Red Queen said afterward.  _You taste of nothing but the fresh sea air._

Remembering that night, Tórir smiles. But now, in his mind's eye, the Red Queen's features are evanescing, transforming into another's.

 _Saya_.

Jøkil's daughter. The Red Queen's niece.

Things aren't all bad, as long as he has her in his sightlines. He may be alone, bereft of his titles and armies. His world may have been swung upside-down, and inside-out. But he is still himself. Still has a mind curved to the wicked sharpness of a  _knifr_.

It has always been the best weapon at his disposal. Never as strong as his brothers nor as swift, he'd learnt early on to coast by on a yarnstring and his wits. He still remembers himself, a shrimp of a boy on the brink of manhood, inquisitive and too clever for his own good. A fatherless pariah who'd spun colorful tales to win friends and to evade the conflicts he'd attracted. He'd learnt to bundle himself in moods and manners, the layers shrugged off and on as he saw fit. Sweetness layered over mockery, mockery worn over cunning, and under the cunning his cruelty, the truest snakeskin.

He will use every ounce of it to get close to the little Queen.

 _Saya_.

He smiles, taking himself back to the alleyway, to the drumroll of rain, the scent of blood and rotting garbage. Saya's eyes the red of magma, the black eruption of her rage. Such an aliveness to her. A  _wildness_. Like a Valkyrie flung to the mortal realm.

Tórir's own Red Queen was the same. A huge presence despite her smallness: her room-filling energy, her cut-throat laughter, the imposing darkness of her eyes. In battle she was a hellion. The first to leap into the fray, chopping heads and cracking skulls, her war-cries sounding louder than thunder itself.

 _She is half Mareridt_ , the villagers would whisper, using the root-word for nightmare.  _Three-quarters, at least._

A pity Saya seems only one-quarter. Stymied by emotion and remorse and foolish humanity.

_Let us see how long that lasts._

The night passes in droplets of rain, thousands of them. Tórir does not sleep. He lays in bed, on the cool cotton sheets. Listens to the  _Fantaisie Impromptu_ , over and over, his pleasure undiminished.

And he plans.

He needs a more secure location soon. He needs money and information and resources.

And one way or another, he will get them.

At dawn, he blinks and stretches. The window is misted with condensation. But sunlight glows through it, distorted, like at the end of a tunnel. He sees the small shapes of birds, hopping across the railing, their fragile feet pattering at the glass. More distantly, the rumble of engines and tires and the shrill peals of horns. The humans carrying on until their world is a mere skeleton of itself: gutted, barren, drained of the colors of life.

_They have even contaminated the little Queen._

_Made her less of herself, and more of them._

The irony revolts Tórir as much as it amuses him.

At the apartment door, a clink of keys. The turning of the knob.

"Ashleigh?"

A man's voice. A man stepping in. Sprawled in the bedroom, Tórir smells as much as hears him. The scent of stale cologne. The tang of disinfectant.

Instinctively, from the blood he's taken from Ashleigh, he knows it is the fiancé. The doctor. Returning from his night-shift for a shower, a sandwich and sleep.

_He will get his sleep._

_In a fashion._

Tórir's belly growls, and he sits up.

"Ashleigh? Babe, you awake?"

Tórir doesn't answer. The blood-thirst is upon him again, his whole body prickling with it. But more than that, this human can be of use. A doctor, a respected member of the community. With a documentation, money and means.

Wearing his skin, Tórir can go where it is bothersome—then as now—for a pretty little canary like Ashleigh to rove. This is a man's world, now more than ever before.

_So much the better._

Making his decision, Tórir smiles.

Crossing the bedroom, he studies his own reflection in the mirror. The blue burn of his eyes. His tongue flicking out of the pink curve of his mouth, snakelike, to touch the sharpened canines. His face and body making indiscernible noises as they melt and reform, skin stretching like putty.

In the barest split-second, it is not Tórir but Ashleigh, staring into the mirror. Her voice comes clear as a bell.

"I'm in here."

"You got anything to eat? I'm starved."

"Yeah." Her smile is sharp and wintry as an icicle. "Me too."

_But not for long._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will feature a serious talk between Saya and Haji (which was kind of the 'seed' that began this fic tbh), as well as the reprieve of Saya playing catch-up with the rest of the Red Shield gang. No idea when the update will fall, but here's hoping it's toward the end of the month!)
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! Critiques and comments can forever be directed to the little review thingy below! :)


	12. Haunted (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! Quite a lengthy update, but it felt safer than breaking the chapter into multiples! There's a lot going on (most of it angsty), but we're also getting into the darker underbelly of Saya's issues (more and more pronounced as the fic progresses). Also exploring the weird and wacky world of Chiropteran biology. A few concepts are filched from Blood# - the rest are my own crazy theories. Let me know how I do, as I am not a science person (...although if you have a class-action lawsuit against a doctor, I could probably represent you).
> 
> Also! I've worked out an outline for the fic. Breaking it into three Acts, with a total chapter count of somewhere around 40 (more or less, depending on how it progresses). Hang on to your hats, sweet readers. It will be An Ordeal - but hopefully an enjoyable one! :)
> 
> Review, pretty please! Your comments are my sweet, savory sustenance!

At the crest of the dawn, Haji finds her in the solarium.

The sky outside is still greyed with storm-clouds. A  _sing-sing_  of rainfall patters across the glass. Once in a while a flashbulb of lightning goes off, showing up each droplet like shards of melted starlight, their downpour sheeting the walls and ceiling in translucent swirls.

Inside, the greenery spools out with a misty-hazy mystery. The humid air smells heavily of roses.

Saya kneels at the flowerbed. She is still in her nightgown; its hem is smudged with soil. Half-concealed by early-blooming flowers, her shape seems almost a part of the storm, the silky rustle of water and leaves.

A beautiful feral thing—built for wild living and wilder dreams.

"Saya?"

His Queen doesn't answer. She is mulching a pot with cacao shells. Her face is dewed with sweat, long hair scraped into a sloppy braid. So intent, yet so far away, her eyes fixed on the spongelike soil yet on someplace else entirely. She doesn't react when he steps up behind her.

"Saya, are you all right?"

She exhales a vague  _Mm_.

"Sayumi and Sayuri have been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing out here?"

"Just... thinking."

 _Thinking, or brooding?_  She says one, and he hears the other.

Carefully, he edges closer. "Dr. Julia called earlier. She has requested a medical exam for you in the afternoon."

"I'm not hurt, Haji."

"It is only a precaution."

"For me, or against me?"

"Saya—"

Rising, she wipes her dirt-rimmed hands on her gown. "What about those men?"

"They will live." In a matter of semantics. "Red Shield wishes to know... if you want the police involved."

He hopes she'll say  _No_. Not because it will get her tangled up in paperwork, yellow tape and suspicion, but because, in Haji's lights, she'd done the right thing. Protected herself—and by proxy others. He and Saya have existed outside of time for decades. Outside, too, of human laws. Why abide by them now?

Then Saya shakes her head. "It's too late for the police. Or the hospital." She swallows. "Those men will never be okay, will they?"

Haji hesitates, his clockwork conscience at war with something beastlier, more expedient, which asks,  _Does it matter?_  He makes himself retreat from the brink.

"They are alive." Gently, "You did not go berserk, Saya. You could have killed them. Yet you stayed in control."

"Control?" An exhale of disgust. "If I'd kept my head in the first place, they wouldn't be  _hurt_!"

"They attacked you."

He thinks about her frantic eyes and the blood and gooseflesh on her breasts. Wishes for the hundredth time he'd been there to rescue her. Even if it meant spilling human blood, as he'd done when their carriage was attacked after the Bordeaux Sunday. He wishes he'd hurt each of those men the same way. Hurt them fatally enough to spare anyone else the abuse they'd intended for Saya.

Then Saya glances around. Her eyes are swollen and red-edged from weeping. The look wrenches at Haji. Fills him with rage at being unable to do the violence for her, at being unable to stop her from doing the violence herself. Bitterness, too, at the fact that it is already done, and that his part ought to be comforting her, holding her.

Except he fails even there.

Shamed, he whispers, "I am so sorry, Saya. That should not have happened, and not to you. I should have been there to stop it."

"It wasn't your fault."

"It  _was_  my fault for letting us split up."

"Haji..."

"If those men had not set you off—"

"It wasn't them that... set me off."

"What?"

She shivers. "Just before... it... happened, I was with Dee at the Bar Junket. And I had the strangest feeling. Like there was a threat nearby, and I had to move,  _fast_ , or I'd die."

"A flashback?"

"I don't know." Her breath catches. "I sensed something."

This rouses strategic as well as primal concern. "Was it a Chiropteran?"

"I thought so, at first. But—" She plays with the end of her long braid. There is a tremor in her small fingers. It disquiets him: Saya's hands are always steady as a soldier's. Even if the rest of her comes unglued, her sword-grip never wavers.

He nearly reaches out to clasp her trembling hands in his. Then Saya whispers, "It wasn't an ordinary Chiropteran."

"What?"

Tears glitter at the rims of her eyes. She squeezes them shut, as if rejecting a vision too gruesome to contemplate. "I  _saw_  it. Just before those men showed up, I was alone in the alley. And I saw something. A—A phantasm, a hallucination. I have no idea. But it looked like  _Diva_. It  _felt_  like her."

_Diva?_

Haji's heart skips once, sharply, before resuming its steady baseline.

"Saya... Diva is dead."

"I know that."

"But then how—"

" _I don't know_!" Her eyes open, rawly red. "All I know is what I  _saw_. Like she was right there with me."

Haji hesitates. He doesn't want to write this off as overwrought nerves. Doesn't want to imagine that Saya has developed a long overdue case of  _delirium tremens_ —seeing snakes darting between the shadows, hearing strange voices at the edges of her consciousness. But— _God_. What if it's true? He has known his share of veterans who whipped out their guns whenever someone banged the kitchen crockery or tread too loudly on the floorboards. And Saya has already taken more abuse than an entire battalion of soldiers.

What if this is her breaking point?

Slowly, he shakes his head. "Saya, that is impossible. You carry a remnant of Diva with you."

"Wh-what?"

"That rock. Isn't it proof enough that she is gone?"

At this, Saya's whole body trembles: a walking hair-trigger.

Decency dictates that he not interfere in her private affairs this way. And if Saya were showing more convincing signs of recovery, he'd never interfere at all.

But Saya isn't healing. She is haunted.

Quietly, he says: "This is not the first time you have seen things."

She nods, barely. "I know."

Haji hesitates again. Then, in a measured motion that is easy to see coming, reaches out to enfold her hands in his. The storm washes everything to a dreamlike blue, and he squeezes her little fingers, and marvels,  _Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands._

Except he can feel the subdermal shaking of her nerves. Not a squall, but a gathering tempest.

"Do you know what sets it off?" he asks. "These—visions, lapses?"

"I don't know. It's so often lately, I've lost track."

The confession makes the hairs on his neck prickle. He has practice in smoothing his face to stone. But with Saya in his eyes, he can conceal nothing; even his voice grates with stoppered concern. "Julia... when I was on the phone with her, she mentioned a colleague in Naha. Perhaps you should schedule a few sessions with her."

"Sessions?"

"For a psychiatric evaluation."

The word drops like a stone into Saya's body. The water levels of understanding rise in her eyes, darkening them in familiar anger. "...You think I should be medicated."

"Please do not think of it that way. We only want to help you—"

She wrenches away. "Help me  _how_? By poisoning my body with pills?"

"Saya—"

"What then? Electrotherapy? Water treatments? A goddamn  _rest cure_?"

"Those are not done anymo—"

"But you think I  _need_  something along those lines." Her fury manifests itself in tiny tremors in her shoulders and arms, in the hands that transform into fierce war-fists. "What next? Will you lock me up in a tower, too?  _Oh, she's already as crazy as Diva. Might as well_ —"

"Saya— _No_."

Stricken by the accusation in her eyes, Haji catches her face between his hands. She stiffens, but doesn't struggle. Her nerves are drawn so tight; it is palpable in her entire face, the strain snapping them one by one. A few more moments, and she comes unstrung. Tears boil up in her eyes. A ragged sob breaks loose from her chest, then another, and another. Haji snatches her up before she crumples to the floor.

"Saya—"

"You want to—to lock me up—!"

"No. Not that. Never that."

"You do! I'm going unhinged. I'm scaring you. I'm scaring myself."

"Saya, no. You are fine. You always will be."

Always, because she is the strongest person he's ever known. The strongest—but also the most tormented.

Gently, he carries her to the narrow workroom that takes up one corner of the greenhouse. Here it is cool and dusty, crowded with sacks of blood-and-bonemeal and the heavy iron clutter of pruners. Settling on a wooden bench, Haji gathers her into his lap. She doesn't resist; her body is a wrung-out rag against him, her words clotted with sobs.

"I'm not fine. I'm not fine. I'm not I'm not..."

"Sssh. You think that now. But it will not always be like this. You will find your way soon. Your family and I will help you."

" _I don't need help_." It's not petulance, but near-despair. "I—I  _know_  I'm crazy. I'm trying to be better. But doctors—pills—that can't  _help_ —"

"Saya, you are not  _'crazy'_." He feels the burn of agonized anger under his words. "There is no time-limit for when you feel like yourself again. But you need to speak to someone. It does not have to be a doctor. There are a hundred alternatives."

She hiccups, " _Isha-hanbun, Yuta-hanbun_?"

"What?"

"It's something—Dad used to say. To figure out what's ailing someone, you need to consult—both the doctor and the shaman."

Haji circles her in closer. "We can try anything you wish. Anything at all."

"What if—nothing works?"

"Saya—"

But she is still talking, her voice a wild wet smudge that matches the color of her eyes. "Time isn't the same for me as it is for regular people. Wh-what if the problem isn't how much time I've got—but the fact that I'm all  _wrong_  in myself? I barely know what I am anymore. It's like everything is—flowing along. And I'm outside the tide. I-I can't explain it."

"Please try."

It is evident that she wants to. Especially if she's worked out an entire metaphor for it.

"It's just that I can't tell if—I'm getting better or worse. Some days I  _feel_  better. Like I'm healing and thinking. Other times—I feel like I'm cut off from my self. My  _real_  self—who was hunting Diva. I'll look around, and think,  _How did this happen_? It will be a hundred-and-fifty-four years since I set her free—next Sunday."

It dispirits Haji to hear her calendaring her life from that horrific Sunday, as if nothing worthwhile existed before. "Do not think of it that way."

"What way?"

He strains for a midpoint between gentleness and firmness. "That Sunday was a single terrible day. It will not repeat itself."

"You can't know that."

"None of us can anticipate the future. But please remember. Whatever disasters have happened to you are not who you are. They will not define your life forever."

A sob bubbles out of her; negation, futility. She crosses her arms around herself, as if to force the sound back inside. The haze of misery hanging over her is nearly as powerful as the rolling stormclouds above the solarium: harsh downpour and jags of lightning. It claws at Haji. He can't focus on anything except the shape of her in his arms, her trembling and tears.

Circling her closer, he kisses her mussed hair. "Forgive me, Saya. I only want to  _help_  you. I cannot stand by and let you suffer."

Stunned, she lifts her moist eyes to his. "You're not—standing by. You're where you've always been. Watching out for me."

"I fear I am not enough."

_To keep you happy. Keep you whole._

He can't bring himself to say that. But Saya, being Saya, catches his meaning anyway.

"That's not your fault," she whispers. "You can't fix me."

"I would not presume to 'fix' you. But I wish... I could at least make it easier for you."

Sniffling, she shakes her head—not at his words so much as at him. Her tiny smile is all melting sweetness. But he can see the pain behind it. Because it's still a reflex for Saya, even with him, to force a smile than to deal with guilt of being unfixable.

"You do make it easier," she says. "Always."

_If only it were true._

He wants, beyond anything else, for things to get better for her. But he is coming to understand that the role he occupies is precarious and complicated: a new lover's protectiveness warring with an old servant's solicitude. He wants to let her make her own choices; he wants to steady the potential shipwreck of her psyche. But what if he is the wrong man to support her in either endeavor?

As a Chevalier, he'd kept her alive, but never unhurt. As a friend, he'd kept her stable but never complete.

Saya would beg to differ, he knows. But she is hardly impartial. They've known each other so long it's impossible to judge if he's on her wavelength or if the years have tailored him to suit her needs. If a man already knows that a lady's favorite part of Bach's  _Cello Suites_  are the  _allemande_ , that she takes her tea with lemon and honey, how to renounce the patriarchy by handing her the steering-wheel and the checkbook, her preferred brand of toothpaste and tampons, whether  _I'm fine_  means  _Hold me_  or  _Leave me alone_ , the exact sweetspot on her nape where she likes to be kissed, it is difficult to distinguish suitability from familiarity.

And of course he loves her. Loves her enough to deny her nothing, forgive her everything. But also enough to understand that his feelings, which expand by the hour, are outmatched by the death-wish still residing in her eyes. A death-wish that may last as long as Saya does.

What if nothing he does ever erases it?

Sighing, he squeezes her tighter; she nestles her heavy head into the crook of his neck. Tearstained and subdued now, the vast sadness having passed her like the monsoon. Except that monsoon is  _inside_  her, trapped in the delicate curve of skull, spilling out without symptom or warning.

Gently, he strokes her head, her soft hair filling his palm beneath the hard crown of bone. Such a sweet skein of contradictions: fragile, sturdy, reckless, wise, selfish, selfless. The complex lynchpin of his entire existence.

"I have a favor to ask," he whispers.

"A favor?"

"Yes. But please do not be upset."

This rouses her. She lifts her eyes to his. "What?"

"You do not... have to see a doctor. Not yet. Give yourself some weeks. A month or two. And if you still feel... displaced, then your family must step in to help you."

"Help me how?"

"However you need. New schedule, new surroundings, new lifestyle." A beat. "New partners, if required."

"If you  _really_  want me to go berserk, Haji, all you have to do is kiss another girl."

"I meant for you."

Disturbed, she searches his face. "Why would I do that?"

"Healing takes time. But time also... changes things." He tries to choose his words with care. To stay neutral, tender. Even if he could never stand to let her go that way. Even he knows he  _would_ , if necessary, and that it would hurt like a hundred spikes to the ribcage. Worse. "One day, you might decide you have outgrown me. You might move on to someone who can make you happier."

"Is that what this is about? You want to send me off because—I'm too unhinged for you?"

Stricken, he shakes his head. "No, Saya.  _Never_. You—you know that all I think of is you. How to take care of you."

"And  _I_  told you that you didn't need to  _take care_  of me. That we're partners."

"Partners, yes. But—"

How to explain it to her? She is so old yet so young. A bitter, life-bitten woman in some ways, an utter innocent in others. She's never lived a life that wasn't stretched beyond the extremities of suffering. Never had the chance to spread her sexual wings. Her existence has shaped itself to the unique outline of their partnership. But that doesn't mean it's meant to last forever.

It certainly doesn't mean he deserves to keep her.

He whispers: "I worry—that I'm doing wrong, always reminding you of your past. Perhaps if you were with someone new—"

He cannot finish. Saya folds herself around him and kisses him. Hard and hot, communicating her fury, her mouth saying,  _You're an idiot_ , and Haji answering,  _Yes, probably_ , a hundred other things passing between them without words, the hothouse flowers exhaling around them and the storm raging outside, so he can taste the earthy grit and electricity on their tongues.

They break on gasps. Their gazes meet and know one another, a private dialogue entangled in the heartbeats between their bodies.

Exclusively theirs.

"Favor denied," Saya says, "Don't bring it up again."

"But—"

"If you think I'd leave you for someone new, you're even crazier than I am."

He tries not to let this—confession? avowal?—distract him from what he means to say. "I only want to help you recover."

"You can't fix me, Haji. I've told you already." Her eyes soften. "That's not why I'm with you."

"Why then?"

She lays a hand on his chest. It is warm and familiar, transmitting a pulse as necessary as oxygen into the chambers of his heart. Reminding him, too, that he is  _hers_ , before she is his, and that he couldn't let her go if he tried.

The choice to leave or stay is solely her own.

She whispers, "I'm with you because I never want to leave you. Because I can't imagine being with anyone but you. Not because you're my Chevalier—but because you're what I  _want_. I think, somehow, you always have been."

"Saya—"

"No, it's true. You worry that you can't fix me. But that's not your responsibility, whatever you think." She presses closer, fitting her head under his chin. "What matters is that you give me space... to fix myself."

This stuns the words out of him. He wasn't expecting to be claimed this way, and so fiercely. But even as he gathers her in, he wonders,  _What if it's not enough?_

Maybe that is the point. Maybe  _Enough_  is a labor not of being, but of  _becoming_.

Saya nuzzles his neck. Under her breath she begins to sing  _Clair de Lune_ —"Light of the Moon"—an old lullaby from their Zoo days. Her voice, high and hauntingly sweet, takes him back to their childhood, when they'd sit together on the settee by the fireplace, and she'd lull him to sleep like a puppy in her arms.

Except he isn't a puppy. He's grown into her watchdog, silent and sharp-toothed. And he must keep her  _safe_.

So let her have her space. But let it also be space divided and shared. He refuses to let her drift into despair the way she'd done in the war, carrying burdens that he'd gladly have taken on, if she'd only asked.

The time for asking is past. He's fought for her cause in a century-long war. Now it is time to fight for  _her_.

_I cannot lose her again._

* * *

The days bleed by and the rain is unchanged, so heavy that it becomes its own dimension: a gray-noise that is first unnerving, then mysteriously comforting.

Saya has no hallucinations again. But from time to time, in her dreams, the snake slides in, a deceptively commonplace figment in an otherwise nightmarish spectrum of slaughter: cracked skulls, flaming corpses, the air shot through with the reek of blood.

Sometimes she dreams of her rampage in Vietnam. Other nights, the same rampage is transposed to Okinawa, her own family dying by her sword.

She screams and screams in those dreams, until she awakes to find she isn't screaming at all, but sobbing, the pillowcase wet with her tears. Some nights she'll slip out of bed and go to Haji's room, fitting herself against his cool body until her shakes ease. Other nights, he will be right there with her, perched at the edge of the bed, his words a gentling lullaby until she drifts to sleep again.

They haven't made love since the disaster in the alleyway. She has the impression he'd like to, but is holding back: caution, consideration. She is grateful for his restraint—but not for the reasons he thinks.

She broods about the men she nearly killed. She frets over another descent into madness. She worries about Adam, his recovery slow and painstaking, a reminder of how human bodies can be altered. She wonders if his attacker was a Chiropteran—and if what she'd sensed in Sakurazaka Street was real.

But Red Shield keeps up a steady sweep around the island, to no results.

Whatever she'd sensed has faded away, like blood in the rain.

In a fortnight, the storms ease off. New sunlight washes over the villa and fills the air with silence, a pure fresh aroma almost like possibility. Saya is still morose and jittery, and though it doesn't disappear, she feels more up to her usual energy.

Since the incident, Haji's calm alertness has shaded into a new breed of hypervigilance. He accompanies her wherever she goes around the villa's thirty-mile radius. Indoors, no matter where she is, he pops his head into the room to check up on her. Most nights, he even shares her bed, folding himself around her with the possessive indolence of a cat, soothing her with palm-strokes along her spine until she drops off.

He talks to her more too, unprompted: everyday chitchat, but also communication. Showing her spots he likes to visit, or foods the twins taught him to make, or books he's found interesting. Taciturn as he is, this is astonishing. Since being brought to the Zoo, he's always occupied himself pragmatically with the moment, his past (four-fifths of his self?) locked so tightly into a box as to be forgotten entirely.

But now, bit-by-bit, he is sharing with her intimacies that Saya senses are from his deepest recesses, twilight mysteries of a mind that he's protected by long habit. It is an interesting mind: half-logical, half-intuitive, with the meticulous creativity of a child prodigy and the shrewd expedience of a child soldier. He has a secret gift for picking locks and people's pockets. He has a fondness for Fibonacci sequences, and intricate pocketknives, and peppers in a colorful spectrum of spiciness.

Most days, Saya will listen to him talk, like hearing a melody unfurl from an instrument she's rediscovered after long neglect. In the war, they've had small-talk and big-talk. But never full-on disclosures. Most of their exchanges were the private language of old marrieds as much as mistress and servant: good-mornings, goodnights, strategy, swords, sleep. Or lately, the low-key charms of flirtation: shades of old camaraderie woven into the pure joy of play.

She supposes the deeper intimacy is something you grow into. Like learning a different dialect.

She tries to meet him halfway. But she can't yet open up about her dreams.

Or about Diva.

Fortunately, Haji is ready to let her work through it... not in her own space, exactly... but at her own pace.

Each evening, he shadows her diligently as she walks the city, re-learning its lineaments. The scale of Naha has expanded crazily since her Long Sleep. The crowds overwhelm her sometimes. The technology, inside and outside, is a shock to the system. There are days when she finds herself in her old schoolgirl haunts, the shapes and scents all wrong. Other days when she can't find anything familiar at all, and her mind buzzes with restlessness.

Okinawa has changed. Time exerts its flow in the cracks across the sidewalks, in some buildings gone like rotted teeth and others sprung up like columns in a bar graph. Her family has changed with it: at once bigger and narrower.

She doesn't comprehend the extent of it, until Adam is discharged from the hospital, and everyone gets together a week later for an impromptu dinner at Omoro.

"That's Monique," David says, flicking through pictures on his phone. "The girl who used to live with Gray. You remember Gray, right?"

Saya nods, and he continues, "After Gray passed, she started a career in social work. She and her wife run their own foundation now. Shelters for kids in conflict-zones. Her top doctor is Nahabi. You won't believe it. But the kid's become a pediatrician. The AAP recently gave him the Nutrition Award for his research."

"Really? What about—?" What was the birthday-girl's name? The cute one Saya gave the teddybear to? "What about Javier?"

"Javier... Let me think. She became a Shield after her twenty-first birthday. Her unit is in Special Tactics. Last I heard, they'd been posted to South Sudan."

"I...I see."

"You should meet her when she gets back. Nice girl. Strong as hell. She single-handedly beat Ezra last time at arm-wrestling."

" _Dad_ ," Ezra hisses.

"Ezra's always been more of a scholar," Julia pacifies. "More into test-tubes than triathlons."

"Test-tubes, huh?" Dee pretends to muse. "I knew there was a reason his head was shaped funny."

"Deidra. Please."

"That—or he spawned from a petri dish. Like bacteria. That'd explain the smell."

"Says the woman who recycles her socks for a week straight," Ezra mutters. "Is that how you kill Chiropterans? A whiff of Athlete's foot?"

"Ah, screw you," Dee says amiably.

"No fighting, you two."

David's tone is good-naturedly rote: he seems accustomed to the bickering. Omoro's mood-lighting turns his eyes into the blue of acai berries, the skin around them radiating lines of age. He's lived in Okinawa long enough to acquire a deep tan; his brightly-patterned  _kariyushi_  shirt is the color of Jell-O shots and his sun-bleached white hair is clipped short in a style that is more surfer than soldier.

Yet his quintessence remains unchanged. The tensile strength of pure steel.

Perched next to Saya on the bar-stool, he thumbs through a collection of snaps. Places traveled, people met, old faces cycling in between the new.

Julia sits adjacent to him, long legs crossed, sipping from the straw of her drink. Like David, she's aged gracefully. Her hair is a different shade, more champagne than honey. Her white linen dress, set off by her suntanned skin, gives her a bronze goddess vibe; Aphrodite matured into Athena.

"Be sure to tell Saya about Lulu, and how well she's doing," she says to David.

Saya's eyes widen. "Lulu?"

David nods. "Julia worked hard to develop a cure for the Thorn. Ten years after your Sleep, she created an anti-serum." He glances at his wife, his features softening with rueful pride. "After four weeks of barely sleeping, and living only on coffee and cigarettes."

"Those were the days when I could get away with it," Julia sighs. "But it was worth it. Lulu was able to walk in sunlight, and have a normal life."

"Lewis adopted her a year afterward," David tells Saya. "They work together in information brokerage. Right now they're in Shanghai."

He swipes through his screen until he finds a good photo. Lulu and Lewis, toasting multicolored cocktails on a terrace overlooking the sunny cityscape. The little Schiff has matured to her late teens in appearance. Her hair is still neon-purple, but she's shed her old resemblance to a baby fruit-bat, and grown into those outsized ears and eyes.

Hugged up with Lewis—who is virtually unchanged in bulk or the brightness of his grin—she is all tipsy exuberance.

Tracing her fingertips across the screen, Saya smiles, "She looks so happy. Her and Lewis both."

"You should visit them," Ezra says. A geeky-gangly version of David, but with his mother's mild grey eyes, he keeps slinking shy looks Saya's way. Despite reading Joel's Diary (maybe because of it?) he seems quite taken with her. "You'd like Shanghai, Otonashi-san. Fast-paced, but lots of spots to relax too. Gardens, museums, and great tea-gardens where you can Zen out. I could show you in the spring if you want."

" _Oooooh_. Are you asking her on a date?" Dee sniggers. "Bold play, Ezzy. And Haji only twenty feet away."

Ezra jitters into redness. "That's not what I meant!"

"I'm impressed. Years of my questioning your manly prowess, and you go for the deadliest woman in Red Shield."

"I was only  _suggesting_ —"

"Oh, look," Julia says pleasantly. "Vicente and Sachi are playing a different kind of Shanghai."

Their table glances around. At the corner of the cozily-darkened pub, Yumi, Yuri and their Chevaliers are treating Adam to a game of darts. The teenager is a bulkier version of David, his tall body roped with thick muscle. His face is David's too, but more jockish: blond hair shorn in a buzz-cut, forehead peppered with acne. At his throat is a swaddling of white gauze.

Heavy stitches are his only souvenirs from the attack at the Bar Junket. Fortunate—except he's retained no memories of the night, either.

 _"Who did this to you?"_  Saya asked him, after he awoke at the hospital.  _"Do you remember?"_

 _"I dunno,"_  he croaked.  _"I just remember taking a pi—taking a leak in the back-alley. Then everything went black."_

_"What about your friends? Did they see anyone?"_

_"Not so you'd notice."_ A grimace of embarrassment. _"We were pretty plastered."_

Not plastered now. Adam sips from his bottle of  _shikuwasa_  juice—the zestiest drink he's been allowed. Like the others, his eyes are fixed on the two players dueling at the dartboard.

Sachi and V have accrued the highest scores. Now they are vying for first place. It starts off playful, then grows serious: a clash of immovable object versus irresistible force. Sachi takes his turn with a cool eye and a sharpshooter's grace; a flick of his wrist landing his dart right where he wants it. Vicente tosses his own like a grenade across enemy lines: blunt accuracy that carries both fanfare and focus.

One by one they fling their darts, each hitting the numbers in play. Each one earning exactly the same points, the scores rising higher and higher. The final throw is a triple; if either of them misses, he loses the game.

Smiling, Saya watches Sayumi and Sayuri cheer like punters at a horse race.

"C'mon, Sachi! Don't let your guard down!"

"Slaughter him, V!"

David shakes his head. "Figures they'd enjoy a match between their Chevaliers. Those girls are competitive about everything under the sun."

"It's a peacock display, David," Julia says. "The boys are proving themselves to the Queens as much as to each other."

"Queens, plural?"

Julia hums. The familiar sound of a scientist whose intellectual curiosity is engaged as much as her womanly wisdom. "They'll be of age soon. It's only a matter of time."

 _A matter of time until what?_  Saya wonders—then feels foolish. Babies. Of course. Cross-fertilization between the girls and their Chevaliers is the only way to start families. Everyone in the room knows that.

Saya's own chance has come and gone.  _Thank God for that_. Diva's Chevaliers were as crazy as she was. They'd all wanted her dead—except poor Solomon. Any children sired by them would've been war-babies, conceived by force and for ill-gotten gain.

It is different for Sayumi and Sayuri. With them, Saya can't convince herself it is wrong. It just seems natural. Like sharing resources.

Like surviving.

"How does it work?" she asks Julia. "Why do we—why do Queens only conceive with their sister's Chevalier? I could never figure it out."

This gets Julia's musing attention. "Honestly, Saya, there's a lot we still haven't learned. But from the data we've gathered, it's clear there's an elaborate biochemical mechanism at play. A way to avoid homozygous mutation."

"That's inbreeding in simple terms," Ezra supplies helpfully.

"Right," Julia smiles, but then the smile fades. "But it's not as straightforward as that. After all, one would think, as Chevaliers of twin sisters, there would be similar genes across the board, allowing any recessive abnormalities to be passed on more easily and expressed more visibly in their offspring. But that's not the case with Chiropteran Queens."

Saya frowns. "What do you mean?"

Julia doles out a maternal glance to Ezra, who excitedly takes up the explanation, "Our team made a breakthrough, two years before your Awakening, Otonashi-san. We discovered that, despite being twins, the chromosome counts of Queens and their respective Chevaliers do  _not_  match evenly! Or rather, the number is the same. But not every gene is in order." He smiles, "The Blue Queen's genetics are subtly different from the red's. As a result, when they mate with each other's Chevaliers, they're not inbreeding so much as  _inter_ breeding. The Chevaliers of the Red Queens carry an allele we've termed the  _S-factor_. Er,  _S-for-Saya_ —if you don't mind?"

She shakes her head, and he continues. "The Blue Queens' Chevaliers carry their own alleles. Ones we've dubbed the  _D-factor_. For successful conception to occur, both these alleles must be present. It's why Queens always have twin girls, not boys. As with other species that interbreed, it's the females who are typically fertile. This is necessary for them to go on and have viable offspring of their own."

Julia adds, "Honestly, it's a fascinating look at evolution's tool kit. It's evident that Queens at one point were able to reproduce with their own Chevaliers. But, over time, their offspring may have suffered from inbreeding depression. These come in many forms: diminishing fitness, loss of immune system function, elevated risk of recessive genetic disorders..."

"So now something in the Queens' bodies impedes it," Ezra finishes. "A method of Cryptic Female Choice."

Saya frowns bemusedly between Ezra and Julia. "What?"

David nearly smiles around a sip of his drink. "You both are so damn pedantic."

"Occupational hazard," Julia sighs. To Saya: "At its best, CFC is a female using physical or chemical mechanisms to control which male fertilizes her eggs. This can occur pre-or-post copulation. In Chiropteran Queens, we've observed it in the way they conceive. Contrary to belief, Queens do not become pregnant right away. Instead, their bodies delay fertilization by storing the seed in a reproductive tract in their bodies. That's why they don't begin showing signs of pregnancy until the year is out."

The statement tugs at memories of Riku and Diva—a trauma whose roots can never entirely be ripped out. With effort, Saya asks, "Why do their bodies delay it?"

"Our best bet is evolutionary pragmatism, " Julia says. "Queens may have avoided birthing in dangerous times. Like long winters. It's also possible they mated with  _multiple_  Chevaliers. Theirs, and their sister's. So this mechanism maximized reproductive benefits. A Queen could reject her Chevalier's seed—while retaining her sister's Chevalier's."

"It also makes evolutionary sense," Ezra adds. "Genetic diversity is necessary for the continued growth of a species. Given that Chiropteran Queens have blood that is toxic to one another, this mating strategy may have developed as a means of establishing cohesion between both units. Pragmatic capital-sharing. It also means that they'd  _have_  to create new Chevaliers, thus ensuring that more Queens were born."

Saya shakes her head. "If it's such a clever strategy... why aren't there more of us? Where did the rest of the Queens go?"

Ezra droops. " _That_ , we're not sure of. There's a possibility that external factors—weather, famine—reduced the mating groups of Queens to small numbers. Maybe they became endangered and went extinct. Or maybe..."

"Yes?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe they became embroiled in warfare. Not too different from your war with Diva. Maybe they died of inter-fighting as much as any population bottleneck."

Saya's heart beats with a sick, self-flagellant force. "I—"

Across the room, shrieks ring out.

"God- _fucking_ -dammit, V!"

"Sachi! Oh  _nooooo_!"

Both Sachi and V have missed their targets. Cooing in comfort, Yuri twines around Sachi. Yumi slugs V, berating him as if he's missed an easy catch dangling right before his eyes.

David shoots Julia a dry glance. "Sometimes pity works as well as peacock displays."

"Mmm." Julia's smile is half-sweet, half-saucy. "Reminds me of our courtship."

"Mom. Dad." Dee cringes. "Please stop flirting."

_Thwock. Thwock. Thwock._

Three darts fly at the board. One lands in the single, the second in the triple, the third in the double.  _Shanghai_  in one inning.

Saya glances with the others to where Haji has entered, soundless as smoke risen up from the ground. He doesn't smile. But he has an oblique way of showing amusement in his eyes while his face remains aloof and unconcerned.

"Dinner is ready," he says.

"And the table won't set itself!" Kai gripes from the kitchen. "Yumi. Yuri. Get over here. And bring those Stormtroopers with you!"

"Why Stormtroopers?" Dee wonders.

"Because they can't aim to save their lives," Ezra snarks, happy to finally get a dig in. "Jeez, Dee. Brush up on some pop culture between firefights."

"You're such a dork, Ezra."

"Better than a dumbass."

"I'm not the one macking on Otonashi."

"I  _wasn't_ —"

Saya smiles, the voices a comforting wash-in, wash-out. New faces mixing with old ones, the golden lamplight and kitcheny noises melting together to stir up a different era. Sitting in the same spot she'd occupied years ago with her family, she can almost hear George and Riku's laughter in her ear...

Her cell phone rings as the others begin moving to the wide dining table. An unfamiliar number. The area code says  _Paris, France_. She answers warily.

"...Hello?"

"Miss Otonashi." Joel's sonorous voice is unchanged by time. "Saya."

"Sir!"

Across the room, the others glance at her. She mouths  _Joel_ , and there are widespread smiles. She guesses that Joel keeps in frequent touch with them. But why wouldn't he? As much as any of them are older, different, distant, the war has made them into a family.

Including Saya—no matter how daunting the difference of thirty years seems.

"I received a message from my secretary," says Joel. "You'd placed inquiries about my health."

"I-I did." There is a twinge of guilt. She'd forgotten about her message not long after sending it. Life was caught up in an upswing of craziness. "Haji told me... you hadn't been well."

"Oh. It's not as bad as they've made it sound," Joel says. "CVD is part and parcel of my age."  _And condition,_  she thinks, the guilt burrowing deeper into her ribcage. "However, the doctors say I should make a full recovery after my surgery."

"I-I'm glad to hear that. Red Shield wouldn't be the same without you."

"Me?" He laughs, that charming, sophisticated laugh. "Without  _you_ , Saya. You are the foundation upon which Red Shield rests. Please do not forget that."

_Some days I wish I could._

"How have you been?" Joel asks then.

"I'm—"  _Adrift. Disoriented. Happy one moment, sad the next. Wondering where I go from here._  "I'm fine."

"Mm. And keeping eloquently to words of one syllable."

It is gentle, but she recognizes the tease. Her half-smile becomes a full one. "I  _am_  fine. Just re-orienting myself."

"Well. Perhaps soon you will have time to visit Bordeaux. We have renovated the Zoo."

"The Zoo?"

"Yes. It was left in ruins, as you know. To serve as a reminder of that tragic Sunday. But with our mission completed, it was time for a face-lift."

"A face-lift?" She isn't sure how to take that. "Are you, um, living there now?"

"Oh no. But every weary traveler does." A wry pause. "It's been converted to a hotel."

"A  _hotel_?"

"Yes. The original château was largely intact. So we restored it. It now has an outdoor swimming pool, a spa center and soundproofed accommodations. Not to mention free Wi-Fi." He chuckles. "The first Joel is probably rolling in his grave. But I felt it necessary to move on. Air out old ghosts, so to speak."

"Mm." Saya swallows. If only it other ghosts were as easy to dispel. "Is it, um, very busy this time of year?"

"Rather. We attract an international crowd. But quality-wise, we're only four-star. There's a rat problem that refuses to go away."

This surprises a giggle out of her. "It was like that before, too. The rats get in from the vineyard."

"Ah yes. Speaking of which. We've had excellent wines this year. I promise to ship you a crate."

"Oh! Th-there's no need—"

"You have my word it isn't contaminated. Like, say, Chateau Duel." There is a playful fizz in his tone, like Chardonnay uncorked.  _Ouch_ , she thinks, and giggles again. "It is running joke with my family," Joel adds. "My grandchildren find it horrifying, given that Cinq Flèches' old winery is in such close quarters to ours."

"Your  _grand_ children?"

"Oh yes! Three of them. From my own two daughters, no less."

"I'm ... surprised."

"I imagine most people are. Especially considering they were begotten the, er, usual way. Rare, but not improbable, I assure you. Franz was first. Emile and Alice soon followed. My Célia is rather a spitfire—but she is a wonderful mother."

His words well up warmly in her ear, full of pride. She smiles, sinking down from her dislocation to inhabit the wistful happiness that is coming to define her life lately. "I'm happy. That the Goldschmidt line is running strong."

"I pray it does so, as long as you live, Saya."

She doesn't know what to say to that.

"I've told the children so much about you," Joel continues. "You're the family mascot, of sorts."

Not the skeleton in the closet? The madwoman in the attic?

 _No_ , Diva says in her ear.

_That was me._

"I hope you will meet them soon," Joel says. "None of us would be here if not for your courage."

" _Our_  courage," she corrects quietly. "We all made it possible."

"But none more than you. Do not forget that." She can almost see the solemn kindness of his expression. She can even picture his desk in Red Shield's ship, the papers piled next to the cut-crystal decanter. The image is burned permanently in her mind, the snapshot of a place and time that is no more. "Do not forget, either, that you owe yourself the happiness you've earned. All the joys you were deprived of, during your war with Diva."

"Mm."

Her heartbeat only falters once. But across the room, Haji's head snaps up. The others have already settled around the table in a haphazard, cheerful fashion. They are passing around mismatched silverware and steaming plates piled high with  _champuru_.

Only Haji stays at the sidelines: leaning against the wall bearing the family's  _Hinukan_  shrine. He's tied his hair back, to keep it from swinging into his face while helping Kai in the kitchen. The austere aspect, a replica of the war, is the same as his quietly assessing gaze.  _Are you all right?_

She manages a smile.  _Just fine._

In her ear, Joel murmurs, "I imagine—no, pardon me, I  _cannot_  imagine—how jarring it must be for you. To awaken to something so different. But with time, I hope this peaceful future will become your cherished present."

"I hope so too."

_It's just the 'becoming' that's hard._

"Please don't worry. Your wonderful family will ease the transition. Haji. Kai. Your nieces. Do give my love to Sayumi and Sayuri. Since my ...lapse, I have not seen them in almost a year." He pauses, as if cognizant of the conversation growing too heavy. His tone lightens. "In the early days, my wife and I would fly to Okinawa to stay at your villa. We made a few renovations along the way. The solarium, specifically. Call it a 'Welcome Home' present for you."

Gratitude surges. She finds a better smile for him, though Joel can't see it. "It's perfect. All of it. I can't thank you enough. For everything you and Red Shield have done for me. Every step of the way."

"We are, and always will be your shield, Saya. Now, if need be, we will also be your shelter." The phone connection is so clear that she can hear the muted swallow of his throat. Fondness concealed beneath the trademark Goldschmidt equanimity. "You must visit France after my surgery. You must come to Bordeaux. We cordon off certain wings of the manor for exclusive Red Shield use. Our best room is the Soliel Suite. Top-ranking Shields often stay there."

"Oh—I-I couldn't possibly—"

"Please. Think of it as a perk. One of the few for a lifetime of sacrifice. Hopefully while you are there, we can take a turn through the Zoo's grounds together."

"I look forward to it." She hesitates. "Is, um—"

"Yes?"

"Is Diva's tower still there?"

There is a moment of static. Then Joel says, "Funny you should mention it. I wanted to discuss that."

"Discuss what?"

"Demolishing the tower. It's off-limits at the moment. The whole thing is crumbling to pieces. It looks positively  _haunted_. Célia calls it a Gothic nightmare."

Something stumbles in Saya's chest. She doesn't want to think of Diva's tower. Yet it rises up in her memory as if conjured by Joel's words—a fairytale ruin that is half-splendor, half-gloom. It is imprinted with Diva's essence, the same way Saya is. If Red Shield had demolished it, thirty years ago, she wouldn't have lifted a finger in opposition.

But now...

"Maybe, um, hold off on it? Until—"

"Until you've had a think?" Joel offers, incisively kind as always.

"Mm."

"Very well. I will table the groundskeeper's request. Until you see it in person."

"Th-thank you."

"Not at all. The Zoo is your heritage as much as mine. Hopefully, when we meet, we can also discuss—" He hesitates. "Succession must be decided soon, Saya. My son Franz is next in line. But I fear he may not be cut out for how ruthless  _The Family Business_  is. I have another candidate, in case Franz declines. A brilliant younger cousin named August. Should Red Shield's board disagree..."

"Why would they disagree?"

"August is, how shall I put it? Unconventional. At least by the board's standards. Many would prefer to see their own picks leading Red Shield." He exhales. "It has been thirty long years, Saya. It saddens me that many of my cohorts have forgotten the dangers of the war. They've grown complacent, and callous. But if their egos begin eclipsing the mission, all hope is lost."

"You've kept them in line so far," she says. "Red Shield will be fine as long as you are."

"I try my best. And will continue to. But once I am gone... I hope you will support August. Offer guidance, and strength. It is what Red Shield needs."

The stumbling in her chest becomes a pinwheel: erratic and queasy-making. "Sir, please don't talk that way."

"What way?"

"Like you're already in the past-tense. You'll be fine. Your doctors said so themselves."  _Right?_  she nearly asks.

"Yes. Yes, of course." He clears his throat. "Simply planning ahead. Time can be our enemy, or our ally. But it remains the one force we have no dominion over. You understand, of course."

"I... I do."

"We will speak again, Saya. Hopefully in person. Give my regards to your family until then."

"Mm."

They say their goodbyes. Stowing away her phone, Saya is left vaguely unsettled. Her memory summons another time, another place, a different Joel measuring the shadow of his mortality to a pocketwatch's ticking cadence...

Forcibly, she tries to banish the feeling. Yet it clings to her skin, a strangeness she can't shake off.

 _You can't forget everything that easily,_  Diva whispers in her ear.

Behind her, at the dining table, her family have begun heaping food into their plates. Kai, clinking a spoon against his glass like a dinner bell, calls out, "Yo Saya! Get a move on. My bones are turning to dust!"

She jerks. "S-Sorry! I was just—catching up with Joel." Pitching her voice to the entire table: "He, um, says hello to everyone!"

"Hello back," Kai grumbles. "I'll call him later tonight. Now are you eating or what?"

"Be right there!"

Hurrying to the enclosed utility sink, she splashes her face with cold water. Staring at the mirror, she almost expects to see Diva smiling back at her. But, pale and haunted, she sees only herself.

 _I need to snap out of it,_  she thinks.

_For Haji. For Kai and the girls and everyone._

She would be well on her way if she knew  _how._

A cool touch on her arm. She swivels to find Haji leaning over her.

"Are you all right?"

He always asks her that lately. Always orbiting her like a satellite, tuned in to every change in her internal atmosphere. She's coming to understand that—paramour or Chevalier—this is how he shows his love. The love of a practical, protective man with one straightforward goal: to keep her alive.

Then his palm cups her elbow, sliding down until their wrists align, fingers twining together. Familiar touch, unfamiliar gesture—respect wedded to intimacy.

All at once, something in Saya relaxes and it is just  _good_. Good to be here, in Omoro, with Haji's fingers meshed with hers, her family waiting at the table heaped with piping-hot food, and the Okinawan dusk slipping into nightfall.

Good to be safe, and alive, and  _home_.

"I-I'm fine," she manages. "I just—"

Her breath hitches when Haji long-arms the door to the space shut with a quiet  _click_. His other hand, knotted with hers, lures her closer. In the room's sulfurous light, his skin is the smooth white of peppermint, the eyes like licks of blue phosphorescence under heavy lids. Their colors twist something through her, and when he skims his knuckles along her jawline, palming her face, she melts into the touch without hesitation.

"Saya…"

It is the prelude to a sentence. But his tone changes halfway from tentative to tender. Her lashes flutter as he slides both cool hands up to cup her face, thumbs stroking the temples—a flirting caress, a grounding into stillness.

Then he kisses her.

His mouth is cool on hers. But the touch is hot, electrified, exquisite. She gasps, and he times it to a furl of his tongue, eating up her breath, flaring dormant nerves to life. It shocks her. Without sense, she presses closer, as if trying to climb his body. His arms encircle her tighter, the sixty-watt bulb flickering above, their breaths sawing in the silence. The kiss goes on until it loosens her mind and the rest of her muscles, a languorous heat that seeps in like drunkenness. She slurs little love notes into his mouth.

Unexpectedly, he eases away.

"Ha-Haji—"

She teeters in his arms. Her body burns with a shockiness like coming awake. She is shaking in places: lips, fingers, elbows, knees.

"What—" She jitters out a breath. "What was that for?"

Haji strokes her hair. His features are smooth as a Sphynx. But his pupils are dilated, the cheekbones pinked with heat. Tiny tells of desire that only Saya can read.

"That was overdue," he whispers.

"Overdue?"

"I promised myself, when we began, that I would kiss you at least once each day… if not more. It occurs to me I have not kept that promise."

"I…"

Saya is aware of her slowing heartbeat. Vertigo—the aftermath of pleasure—still pulses through her blood.

He detaches, gently. His look is hard to parse: half-longing, half-concern. "I will not apologize for kissing you. But I will for startling you. I meant to see if you were all right. Not to—"

"Get sidetracked?" She smiles, an unsteady epiphany. "Maybe … it's just as well that you did."

Outside, Kai's voice clamors: " _Saya? Haji?_   _Where are you guys_   _at_?"

Haji glances away with patent guilt, as if remembering their surroundings. When he speaks, it is quietly courteous. "You should join the others for dinner."

"Mm." She smooths her dress down. The tension inside her, a needle climbing to red, has diffused. In its place is something else—a shimmery tactile spark. She is lit up inside, in a way she hasn't been since…

"Haji?"

"Hm?"

Going up on tiptoe, she takes his face in both hands to kiss him again. He shivers, and opens for her with a little sigh. The kiss is short, but gratifyingly sweet. When it breaks, she stays close, warming his cool lips with hers. Her pulse wavers, but for once the effort isn't in repressing the agitation of the past weeks.

"I think you're right," she whispers.

"What?"

"It  _was_  overdue. Like... a lot of other stuff."

"Saya—"

"Ssh." She lifts a fingertip to his mouth. Then it becomes a caress, her thumb gently traversing his lower-lip. "We'll talk about it later."

 _At the villa_.

Haji's eyes are soft with affection on hers. Gazing into them, something steadies inside her, an off-kilter globe sliding on its axis to spin again. And while Saya has that, she isn't afraid. Not of the dark specters of the past ... or the darker shadows of strangeness trapped within.

Creeping like a blood moon over a rising tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: smut.
> 
> Also Tórir stirring up shit.
> 
> In that order.
> 
> Saya will probably meet him by chapter 14 or so, but the real disaster won't hit until nearabout chapter 22. Hope you guys are enjoying the fic so far - and please let me know if there's aspects that could be tweaked/improved. Your feedback means a lot to me! :)


	13. Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold~! Smut~!
> 
> Not the only thing that happens in the chapter, of course (we also get more insight into Tórir's history, and bits and pieces of Ye Olde Chiropteran society), but y'all are due some fluffiness between our brave heroes - even if it is angsty fluff. Also there is some gory imagery later, so watch out!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! As ever, your feedback powers this story forward, and I'm always open to suggestions on how it could be improved!
> 
> Review, pretty please! :)

There is no rolling blackout tonight. But Saya has lit tea-candles in her room again.

She sits at her dressing table, combing her hair to a high shine. The brush is from her Zoo things—ivory-backed and ornate, the horsehair bristles as pliant as in their heyday. The table's surface is crowded with similar belongings, old and new. The ormolu jewelry box. A collection of silver haircombs with porcelain flowers. Exquisite glass bottles of perfumes in pink, gold, blue. A sleek folding Hideaway knife that Haji gave her after the attack at Sakurazaka Street.

Arranging everything around her, Saya experiences a strange sense of memories overlapping, her different selves sliding against each other like photographs fallen from an album…

Then Haji knocks at her door—polite but no longer tentative. "Saya?"

"Oh! C-Come in."

She's begun expecting him at this hour. Usually she is already folded under the covers in her pajamas, a book muzzily cradled in her lap. Other nights she is jittery and wired, needing the cool enclosure of his arms to sail her out to the shores of sleep.

Sleep isn't on the agenda tonight.

She smiles when Haji slips up behind her. With clockwork courtesy, he takes the brush from her hands. His cool fingers work her hair into a loose plait. "You should be in bed, Saya."

"I'm not tired yet."

"You have been yawning all evening."

"All right, Haji. I'll sleep soon." She turns to face him. "But one thing first."

"One thing?"

She goes on tiptoe and kisses him.

In the candle-glow, her Chevalier gives off a disconcerted heat, pouring it into her open palms. She hopes he isn't having second thoughts. She wants to recapture that sweetness they'd been spinning between them at Omoro. Longs for it to break the tension inside her, the way a thunderstorm breaks a heat wave.

But when her tongue probes the seam of his mouth, Haji stiffens. She hears his shaky little breaths; he keeps their kisses going only with his lips.

"Saya," he whispers. "You do not have to do this."

"Ssh. I want to."

"For myself? Or for you?" He traces a cool finger along the strap of her tank-top, from her shoulderblade down to her breastbone, feeling her vibrating pulse. "When I kissed you earlier… it was not to pressure you this way."

"You didn't pressure me."

"Saya—"

"C'mon, Haji. Gift horse. Mouth." She gives him a shy, sidelong smile. "I was planning to give you mine."

That shuts him up.

She undresses in the flickering golden glow. Watches Haji's face soften in that lovely, near-imperceptible way, his gaze drifting over her in a languid hungry wandering.

 _Oh_.

Her body's response catches her off-guard—pulse leaping, legs gone light. She still isn't used to it. Feeling good, asking for good things. The attack in Sakurazaka Street had made it worse. Confronted by her own monstrousness, she'd tried again to deny the longing in herself.

But with Haji, it will never go away.

He makes no objections when she spills him back across the bed. Never takes his eyes from her as she climbs across his body, tugging off his clothes. Wrapped up in those dark suits, he is always so impeccably soigné, fit for a waltz more than a tumble in the hay. But nude, the long smooth shape of him takes on a lupine allure that makes her breath catch.

She takes charge, giving him no choice in the matter. Listens to his breaths judder into gasps as she kisses down his body, and then, when she finally reaches the jutting shaft of him, shocky sounds halfway between prayer and profanity.

"S-Saya. You shouldn't—"

"Ssh." She bends to her task. "Just lie back and look pretty."

Haji inhales slowly, but his exhale is rapid, ragged. "Oh God. That—" His head drops back against the pillows. With effort, he raises it again. The awe in his eyes pierces her.

She wants it to be perfect, this introduction to the  _Silent Flute_. But she has no finesse for a five-star performance. In her clumsy grip, he radiates heat. The thatch of hair at his groin is the one dark place on his body, except for the ribboning of scars here and there. Curving up into her two hands, his erection is smooth and solid and slick-capped, the heavy vein on the underside visibly thrumming.

For a moment she just—stares. Over a century old, yet she is far from jaded about male anatomy. At the Zoo, she'd read everything from over-the-top erotica like  _The Pearl_  to medical treatises that attempted to pigeonhole the rainbow of human desire into black-and-white terminology. As a high-school girl in Okinawa, she'd seen plenty of sex-tips in magazines and shared giggly gossip with friends.

But the reality is different. Complicated, and unpredictable, and obscure. Like math. Like magic.

But Haji's fingers are gentle as they comb through her hair. Flushing, she darts her eyes up, and dips her head down. Blows a cool-hot breath along the underlying vein up to the notched glans, following the stream with her tongue. Then she opens her mouth, careful of her teeth, and swallows him in.

He tastes clean, musky. His pale thighs tremble with the rhythm of her slip-sliding mouth. His hands clutch fistfuls of her hair, wed themselves to her skull, cradle it the way you'd hold a priceless vase. She senses the enormity of his restraint, even as she can't resist goading it. Working him over with her tongue, compelling him with her eyes, until a blush darkens his cheekbones and his gasps melt into groans.

She wants to memorize every sound, map out every sweet-spot, because  _God_ , this is insanely hot. Strange that she'd pictured it, in her mind, as degrading. Especially when she's already lost track of how often he's done this same thing for her. Not out of duty or generosity, but pure  _hunger_. She hadn't understood why.

She does now.

There is a thrill in watching his body collapse into a mess of tremors alongside his self-command. In letting him pry her mouth open wider, cupping her jaw, while his Chiropteran hand tangles itself in her hair like an entreaty. In letting him take her, not as a glory-hole but as something whose eroticism in rooted in the forbidden, his hips surging until he nearly touches the back of her throat. In learning that even if she is clumsy, wet choking gasps and inept scrapes of teeth, the fact that it is  _her_  is enough to send Haji spinning into a frantic headspace, his head dropping back to display a smooth arc of neck, his breaths escalating into a delicious tortured sob she's never heard before.

" _Saya_."

The sound thrills through her sensorium. As if hearing her name enough times will help her re-inhabit it.

Make her whole.

She breaks off, mouth wet and buzzing. "Y-You'll have to show me later. Everything else you like. But right now— _mmph_."

He's snatched her up, fingers tangled in her hair. The kiss is slippery-hot and sublime. Shivering, she melts against him, and Haji enfolds her tighter. She can feel his effort to stay gentle. Feel, too, how the waiting has turned his need as sharp as the blades he keeps hidden in his coat. Cradling her head in his clawed hand, he lets the other roam along her throat, to her breasts, thumbing the nipples, palming down her belly to curl around her mons. She gasps, and he absorbs her tension, instinctively soothing with softer kisses. The cool pads of his fingers slip through the tangle of curls to find her wet, hot, unresisting.

Their eyes catch and hold. Nerves make her heart tumble over itself.

"More?" he whispers.

It is so like him to obtain her consent first. Always.

In answer, she catches him in a long centering kiss. Breaks off to nuzzle against his lips, keeping her senses anchored to the moment. The candles burn in dappled sunspots across the room. In the glow, her eyes flow over him with fascination: skin like pure marble, the spilled corona of his curls and the blue mystery of his gaze. Beautiful and beguiling and so blessedly hers, over a century's suffering coalescing into the body that has shielded her from deadly spikes and deadly sins alike.

The safest place on earth.

Gently, she urges him over onto his back, and climbs across him. His erection is throbbingly hard. She encircles it in her hands, and guides it to her entrance.

"Haji." It is a jittery meow, as he sinks carefully inside. " _Haji_."

He kisses her again, opening her up with sweet stabs of his tongue, with sweeter stabs of his hips. Working his way inside her until their dark hairs are crushed together, the fullness of him pouring bright red into her skull. She cries out. Her mind is like a needle spinning wild, leaving her strung-out with the shockiness of it.

Sighing, Haji steadies her with his fingers, the cool tips floating across her hair and skin. Starts a deep rocking that makes her shudder in place. It's like trying to ride a thoroughbred, without reigns or saddle, her body caught between exhilaration and panic.

Then their eyes meet, and matching smiles sneak out of them both.

"Maybe—" she gasps.

"Hm?"

"Maybe I should've—worn my  _devantiere_."

Haji hums, dark-eyed with indulgence. "As long as—you don't put a bit in my mouth."

"I was thinking of sugar cubes." She rolls her hips. "Stirrups."

"No… ahhhh, riding crop?"

"Only if—if you rear up." Mock-sternly, "I expect a racing trot, Sir."

He shifts under her, thrusting deep. "Like that?"

She squeals, because  _Like that_  barely comes close. Everything is just a little too much. Yet she loves how it feels to arch over him—so full yet so  _hungry_ , the cacophony of her mind flattened so all that's left is the arterial bloom of heat in her body. She follows it with her senses, rocking from spot to spot, her needs steadying into a zone at once feverish and serene as she finds her balance, flexes into motion.

Takes the reins.

"Saya." Haji clutches at her twisting hips. His voice is grittier than a moment ago. " _Saya_."

The sound of his voice pours across her skin in a sensitized ache. Fanning her fingers across his ribs, she speeds up, hair swaying in a tangled wilderness across their faces. Sweat trickles into the hollow of Haji's swallowing throat. She laps it with her tongue, then bites at where his pulse jerks until he gasps into her hair, sibilant growls like spurs digging into her mind. She repays them with kisses: hot and openmouthed, each one changing to complement the way she rides him. Long deep strokes that almost take him out of her, then gliding down in a gallop, thrilling, maddening, frantic, and then Haji calls her name on a strangled nearly-there groan and she laughs at the adrenaline-shock of being so  _alive_.

Until her mind flashes a choppy reel of the previous days: the eerie glide of the snake, the creature on the rooftop, the red sprawl of the men's bodies in the alley, Diva's voice like a trickle of icewater in her ear…

_Come with me, Saya._

"Saya?" Haji touches her face. "Are you all right?"

"Mmm." Tears slip from her eyes, unsynchronized to the moment. "I-I'm okay, Haji. Just—a little emotional."

"Should we stop?"

"Keep going.  _Please_."

He rolls her beneath him, safe in the shelter of his body. Cool palms cradling her head. Cool lips dotting kisses to her wet cheeks. Everything slows down. But slow is good too—their shapes folded together in an undulant rhythm, heads templed and gazes matched. Each motion thaws a chill inside her, erases the misshapen ache she hadn't realized was there. Her eyes flutter shut, blood foaming beneath her restless body, igniting a shockwave in spine-deep slow-motion. Her sobs are a bliss that is agony once removed.

And then Haji groans, catching her against him on a surge of tremors, and Saya hangs on for dear life as they ride them out to the end.

Afterward, shivery and sweat-filmed, she cuddles against him in the warm declivity of the mattress. Moonlight plays across the stained-glass window in an Aurora Borealis. Haji keeps her nestled close, his palm pressed between her thighs. It seems to be his habit, post-lovemaking. Saya relishes it.

Possessive, watchful, wanting—this is a side of Haji that belongs only to her.

Kissing her teary eyelashes, he whispers, "Will you cry every time, Saya?"

"I-I don't know. Maybe."

"Is there is something you'd prefer I do differently? Something that sets you off—"

"Ssh. Everything is perfect." She sighs. "That's the problem. Not this.  _Me_. What's in my head. Wanting you. Wanting to feel good with you. And then—becoming terrified because I don't deserve it. I don't deserve—"

"Saya." Gently, he takes her face in his hands. "Please do not go there. Not now."

"Not now." His palms are wonderfully cool on her burning skin. "Not ever."

"I did not say that." He steadies her within the crook of his arm, their foreheads resting close. In the tea-lights, his eyes are intensely blue and black on hers. "I still feel... we rushed into this. The bed, the intimacy. I am not sorry. But I cannot ignore my better sense, either." Quieter, "We needn't rush into anything else. Whatever you are feeling... or thinking... take as much time to work through it as you need."

"Haven't I taken enough time already? I've kept you waiting a century for the so-called prize..."

"Do not reduce yourself to that."

"To what?"

"A prize." He lays kisses all around her face. "You are so much more. The bravest person I know. A miracle of… of…"

"Of what?"

He smiles. "A miracle of sheer stubbornness."

The tiny tease steadies something in her chest, as if down in the stormy depths of her an anchor has settled. She nuzzles into him breathlessly. "Can I ask you something, Haji?"

"Hm?"

"Stubbornness aside… am I at least what you hoped? I-I mean, we've barely gotten started. But I'll get better with time. At everything. I'll—"

With a mute moan of helplessness, Haji enfolds her closer, burying his face in her hair. His palms skim everywhere across her body: breasts, belly, thighs, greedy, grateful, worshipful. She can feel without asking her effect on him, the enormity of his desire that she is barely beginning to fathom. It is there in the soft fervent glow of his eyes. There in his voice as he whispers her name, intensified to an adoration that sweeps a flush along her skin. There in his kisses, hot and deep and endless, their pulse beating in tandem wherever their bodies touch.

It shouldn't feel scary, but it does. Scary to be cherished this way. Scary to be so  _safe_.

He whispers: "If you get better..."

"Mm?"

"If you get better, Saya, you will surely kill me. Because this is already better than I can stand."

He isn't eloquent even in ordinary circumstances. This, from him, is paragraphs of adulation

Saya bites her lip around a smile. It isn't easy, her transition from war to peace, death to life. Yet he is always so solidly  _there_. Always accepting from her bursts of moodiness that another man would never tolerate. Part of being her Chevalier, she reasons. Yet he isn't tentative as her lover, either. The difference isn't in the emotions, but their texture. He remains as touchingly thoughtful as ever. He never alters his attentiveness to her.

But where before it was at a sentry's distance, now it is all around her—an outrush of devotion that is proving heavier than expected.

What if she is never equal to it?

Shivering, she burrows closer. "I-I hope you know," she whispers, "No matter how mopey I seem, I'm not  _un_ happy. Just a little... a lot... disoriented. But I'm glad you're with me. I'm glad my family is. It was nice to catch up today with everyone. And to hear from Joel."

"What did Monsieur Goldschmidt wish to discuss?"

"He, um..." She doesn't want to share the unsettling feeling during the conversation. As if Joel wasn't checking in, but checking out. Permanently. "He wanted to see how I was. He told me... about Diva's tower. They plan to demolish it. But he wanted to hold back until I saw it myself."

He caresses her spine. "Do you wish to visit there?"

"I-I don't know. It'd be weird, wouldn't it? Like a criminal returning to a crime-scene."

"You are hardly a criminal, Saya."

Her jaw clamps on a reflexive denial. It is difficult, most days, to see herself as anything but.

Quietly, Haji adds, "It would be a good chance for closure. Afterward, perhaps we could travel?"

"Travel?"

"To places you'd always hoped to see. Spain. Italy. Greece."

It's an alluring idea. Yet she can't yet agree to them taking off together—not just on account of time lost with Kai and the twins, but because she doesn't yet feel ready for the luxury of travel. It seems wrong, somehow.

 _It's not like you're living life to the fullest here,_  Diva sneers in her ear.

 _Shut up,_  she thinks. To Haji: "How about America? I've always wanted to see LA."

"I have been to LA many times on tours." He makes a faint, wincing face that betrays boredom. "You would not care for it."

"Oh? There go my dreams of moving to California and starting a yoga studio."

Haji's smile is hidden in her hair. "We can go, if you wish. It is your choice."

"No. We can't travel unless we're in accord about our bucket-list." She sighs. "What's the loveliest place you've ever visited?"

He seems to ponder this. "The Faroe Islands."

" _And_?" She butts her head playfully against his shoulder. "What was so great about them, Mr. Bullet-Points?"

Haji makes a little sound of contemplation or amusement. "The scenery. Most of the archipelago is emerald green. Dark cliffs. Stormy sea-waves. It is almost mystical." A beat. "There are also puffins everywhere."

" _Puffins_?"

"They are good in stew."

"You ate  _puffin_  stew?!"

His eyes hold a dry gleam. "You would like it. Heavy fare. But filling."

"Mmm. You  _are_ good at knowing what fills me up..."

She crooks up her leg, tangled between his, to prove her point. A growl hitches in his throat, and she giggles—until he tips her head up for a kiss. It goes on until she is breathless and skin-shivery. Not a surface craving, but deeper, like a heavy ache blooming from her chest and into lightness.

Like her whole body is a secret that can only share itself here.

"Mmmm," she sighs, as Haji slides his palms up her ribcage to her breasts, dusting them with cool kisses. "I meant this to be a quick—quickie—"

"Hm?"

"But you're turning it into—an  _amuse-bouche_  in a full-course dinner."

" _Amuse bouche_." Haji's voice licks across her skin like a cat's tongue. " _Le mot est un peu sale_."

" _Tu as juste un esprit—mal—mal tourné._   _Ohhh_."

He's pinned her wrists over her head, force sheathed in tenderness. Coaxing her thighs to fan open and fit him over her, like a  _dèveloppé_  in a ballet. Not entering her, but stroking the heavy length of himself along the slicked folds of her labia, over and over, just like on their first night—only this time the maddening caress leaves her astonished that she can tremble so badly yet not be the least bit afraid.

"Ha-Haji..."

It is  _Please_  by any other name

Hands entwined with hers, he sinks inside slow and heavy. The fullness makes her mind white out, the circuit of completion making her shake. Sobbing, she breaks their grip to encompass him tighter in her arms and legs. His bone-heavy shape against her, his cool breaths stirring her hair, hips moving in a giving grind, are all a sanctuary of the most precarious kind.

"Slow?" he whispers in her ear.

"Take forever," she breathes. "Please. Can we never stop?"

He tips her head up to catch her mouth. Kisses rising from deep inside, as if secrets of his own are tremoring across the tongue to take flight.

_Anything you want. I've got you. I'm yours._

Effortless exchange just below the surface.

Later, swimming in the white seas of the bedsheets, she drowses. There is an inward sigh of regret when Haji draws away. She feels his fingers in her hair, smoothing it from her forehead. His cool lips touch her cheek.

"You will be all right," he whispers. "You will, Saya."

Then the mattress shifts and he is gone.

Freed of his weight, Saya is immediately lonely. But she dares not call him back. He always departs toward the tail-end of the night. The reflex of a watchman resuming his post—but also a reminder that her Awakening has interrupted the rhythms of his life in Okinawa. The work he does at the university. The Red Shield ops he takes with Dee and the twins. The meetings with old and new talent from the music industry.

Her Chevalier has quite a busy life going for himself lately. Saya admires his sense of quiet purpose. But it also calls attention to her own lack of direction.

An attention that leads, inevitably, to restlessness.

Sighing, she sits up in bed. Her body feels like a glowing-hot ember; she imagines Haji's love-bites as radioactive rosettes across her skin. After the pleasure he's wrung from her, she should be dead to the world. Yet no matter the depth of her exhaustion, sleep always eludes her.

By habit, she reaches for the books on her bedside table. A few volumes are borrowed from the twins— _when, oh when, will you get ebooks, Auntie Saya?—_ but most are from the Zoo.

Her favorite, now as then, is the leather-bound collection of fairytales by Perrault and Straparola.

Without switching on the lamp, she thumbs through its parchment pages. The illustrations are hand-drawn and exquisitely colorful. She skims through the old stories.  _Raiponce. La Belle au Bois Dormant. Neige Blanche et Rose Rouge._

Tonight, she is in the mood for an old Italian classic.  _Biancabella et le Serpent._

Drowsily, she reads the introduction. "... _Once upon a time, there reigned a marquis and marchioness. They were respected for both their wisdom and their great wealth. But to their grief, they had no children between them. Though still comely, the marchioness was past the age of childbearing. This troubled her greatly. She slept little and prayed day and night for the gods to bless her with a child. One day chanced the marchioness strolling in the palace garden, when, overcome by sleep, she lapsed into slumber next to a tree. While she slept, there crept to her side a snake, which slipped under her dress without rousing her, and made its way with stealthy windings into her womb, where it lay quiescent. Before long the marchioness, to her joy, and the joy of all the state, found herself to be with child..."_

Saya stops, disturbed. In her mind's eye she sees that snake again, gliding toward her with sinister slowness.

Why does she keep seeing it, in her dreams, at the corners of her eyes? And why is it inevitably tailed by the sound of her name?

Shutting the book, she sets it aside. She really should put it in storage. Whatever its nostalgic charms, it is ridiculous to keep reading it. Marchionesses. Snakes. Babies. These are not the bedtime fancies a warrior should indulge in.

Punching her pillow, she settles in to try and sleep. The villa is perfectly quiet; the music room, where Haji composes melodies at this hour, is soundproofed. Outside, from the half-cracked window, the scent of impending rain wafts across the sago palms.

A peaceful night to settle in and dream.

At the cusp of sleep, she thinks she is already dreaming; there are strange sounds which seem to be inside her body, the voice of a woman, saying her name, warning her to be ready, grab her sword, her cries vibrating in Saya's bones.

Then suddenly she is jerked awake by a very real sound—outside not inside. A  _scrchhhh-scrchhhh_  at the barely-open window, furtive but repetitive. She is sure it is only a palm frond, but instinct tells her otherwise.

_That's ridiculous._

_A trespasser would set off the alarms._

_Or set off Haji._

Yet she reaches for the sword at her bedside. The  _scrchhhh-scrchhhh_  grows louder. Without bothering with her dressing gown, she tosses aside the covers and goes to the window. Something is definitely there; bat-wings of shadow are spread out behind the stained-glass. She can't sense a presence. But her fingers tighten on the hilt of her sword.

_Who is that?_

In one swift motion, she jabs the butt at the windowpane. It flings open, the monsoon wind whipping into the room. Goosepimples break across Saya's bare skin. The windowframe is a delineated rectangle around an unnaturally bright moon. She can see the stirring tops of palm trees, the glittery slice of the sea.

Nothing else.

Except—

"Oh God."

It slips from her mouth like poison.

A heartbeat later, the light in her room snaps on. Without turning her head, she knows it is Haji. Summoned by the softest splinter of her voice, by her spiking pulse.

He doesn't ask what the matter is. Like her, he is staring at the surreality sprung up around her window.

The walls outside her room are tangled with climbing blossoms. Most have barely begun to grow from tight pretty buds into florets. Some mornings, she catches their rich green scent in the air, intermixed with whiffs of perfume.

The smell is unnaturally strong now, so pure it is almost dizzying.

Roses.

They are clustered all around her window, their leaves frosted with night-dew. Each one unfurling on double-time, right before her eyes. Each one a perfect origami whorl, the petals translucent in the gilded glow of the moon.

"Saya."

Haji's cool hand touches her shoulder. She doesn't move. In some distant chamber of her heart, she understands she is  _terrified_. Yet she can't feel it. Can't feel anything but the déjà vu crawling through her bones.

All around her window, roses are in bloom.

Blue roses.

Just like in Diva's tower.

* * *

Naminoue Beach

1-25-11 Wakasa, Naha,

Okinawa Prefecture 900-0037

It isn't a villa. It is a  _fortress_.

Tórir has followed her scent to Naminoue Beach, an olfactory breadcrumb trail of sweetness.

He's found the elegant limestone building, long and angular and spread out like slabs of ice across the cliffside. He's scoped out the entrance and exit points, not for a plan to attack but out of curious opportunism. He's begun memorizing their routines—solo and together. When she goes to the solarium. When he plays cello at the patio. When they receive visitors. When they walk arm-in-arm along the lacy edge of the shoreline. When she goes there alone, usually when the sky darkens to evening, and sits with her legs curled under her, her face bearing a swimmy, dreamlike look, like someone under a spell.

He'd expected, based on his blurry sketch of Saya and Haji, composed with bits and pieces of the Red Shield boy's memory, that he was dealing with toothless prey. Creatures who live as domesticated dogs do: floppy-eared and harmless, trotting endearingly at the heels of the humans around them. Creatures who are easy to catch off-guard.

Barely a week later, he reassesses his opinion.

The villa has no point of ingress. There are alarms across the length of the grounds. Electric eyes. Motion sensors. The glass at the windows is tempered. The locks are activated and deactivated by the residents' fingerprints or their cellphones. Around the perimeter of the villa, a drone circles.

Nothing can get inside—be it a bullet or a beetle.

Tórir is tempted to call the paranoia excessive. But, twining his mind's fingers around the threads of information in the boy's blood, he remembers:  _Saya and Haji have fought in a war._

They have enemies—and irritants. The Chevalier, little better than a wandering minstrel, has only a decade prior gained international renown. He prefers his privacy. Prefers too, to prowl the grounds late at night, his eyes darting like with a hunter's across the sand. Whenever Saya goes out, he accompanies her, a one-man retinue. When they dine out at restaurants, he takes the seat with an unimpeded view of the entrance, guarding her back. In solitary moments, he practices with edged weapons, making throwing knives move like spinnerets, like silk, like shiny metal monsters with minds of their own.

In Tórir's time, Queens had elaborate phalanxes of Chevaliers to fulfill each role. Saya only has one Chevalier. But,  _gods_ , the man is unnaturally gifted. A bricoleur.

Haji makes Tórir wary. But Saya...

She fascinates him.

So shy on the surface. A pout that can melt chocolate. But there is darkness lurking beneath her smooth face, and those guileless eyes.

One night, Tórir watches her train with her sword. Such an unusual weapon. A  _katana_ , they call it. Wickedly bright and deceptively simple: its handle wrapped in leather, a red stone glittering madly at its base, the palest hairline abrasions along the blade where she has polished it with a whetstone. She wields it with lethal accuracy, moving it in her hand like a part of herself, smooth feints and dodges. Her body carries a sharpness that is of a piece with the weapon, each movement calibrated to deliver maximum damage with minimum warning.

In that moment, there is no difference between her or the Red Queen. She is the same size, the same shape. Her whole essence is a pulsating echo of her ancestor's.

The Queen who had made Tórir immortal. Who had slaughtered all his brothers. Who had, with the cruelty that came as easily to her as breathing, once slaughtered Tórir's own father.

Robbed of oxygen, the human brain begins to corrode in one minute. Tórir has taken great droughts of Ashleigh and her fiancé's blood. One RN, one doctor. He knows the terminology. _Cerebral hypoxia._  In those days, leagues and lifetimes away, he'd pictured it differently. A black stain, the size of a wolf's pawprint, across the surface of his father's brain.

Dead meat.

That was how the Red Queen had treated him. Dead meat. Using him as a blood-juicy target for her javelin.

Tórir remembers its point striking his father's arm with a wet heavy  _thuck_. The Queen's Chevaliers all around, each with their own spears. They'd hurled them carelessly. Like it was a game. Each spear hit his father's chest, his thighs, his gut, missing often, strays sailing into the air, bouncing off the grass. All of them laughing: the invincible laughter of invincible creatures.

People in Tórir's village never laughed that way.

The sound of their laughter had terrified Tórir. It was like a wall of darkness falling from the sky. More disturbing still was the sound of his father breaking apart. His gagging sputters as the life oozed out of him. The coppery red brine of his blood spewing across the grass. And on and on, spears sliced around him. One struck him right in the skull, tearing a line across his temple, his flesh splitting open to reveal the gleaming white of bone beneath. A second spear lodged in his belly, sinking in with such pressurized force that Tórir saw the pink of his insides spilling through the slit.

His father was chained to a post in the Queen's courtyard. A punishment for passing secrets from her court to that of a rival's. For accepting bribes as payment to feed his wife and six sons.

The Queen's court denounced the act as treason. Tórir and his family were dragged out to watch his punishment. When it was over, the post was slick with blood, the grass red with it. The Queen and her Chevaliers grew bored and departed. His father's mangled body spasmed in the pale winter sunlight. Not quite alive, not quite dead. Jaw hanging open. Blood hemorraging into both his eyeballs.

Dead meat.

The village's medicine man stitched him up. Kept him alive—in a manner of speaking—almost a fortnight. But it was no different from watering a turnip pulled out of the soil. The fabric of his father's brain had been sliced to pieces. Ruined, like his body itself.

After his burial, their whole family was shunned. Tórir's mother soon resorted to peddling what little she had to offer.

 _The whore's boys,_  the village called him and his brothers. Not a slur but a brutal summation of their future. Six boys earmarked for a lifetime of bitter isolation, scraping poverty, corruption and disaster. It should have torn them down and apart. Ruined them, in ways not unlike their father.

Instead they had ascended to heights beyond the villagers' imaginings. They were reborn as gods among men.

Then they'd turned and slaughtered the very gods who sired them.

Tórir remembers those days. Perched high on the cliffside, gazing down at the villa, he thinks of the Queens. Their beauty, their extraordinary barbarity. Some beings live as comets do: blazing a path through the pages of history with a fire of their own creation. Scorching everyone around them, leaving despair and destruction in their wake.

Even today, their imprints echo the shape of the sun itself. The humans' folklore, the more Tórir learns of it, is a multifaceted marvel of their single story. Goddesses who are protectors and providers, predators and pillagers, invoked by midwives and warriors alike.

In Tórir 's heyday, they had many names.  _Valkyrja_. Valkyrie. Chooser of the slain.  _Idisi_. Dísir. Goddesses of fertility.  _Nornir_. Norns. Rulers of Wyrd.

At every turn, the Queens were the harbingers of love and hate, life and death, pleasure and pain, their selves linked in an eternal opposition of roles, a universal duality of titles. And yet the Queens were always completely and unabashedly themselves, choosing to dance to the beat of their own drums. Powerful and preternatural, they had walked the fine line between mother and monster, life and death, swaying on their tiptoes and laughing at the joy of balancing so perfectly on the edge.

Tórir had wanted nothing more than to claim that joy. To trap and extinguish it little by little. A slow death to match an immortal's interminable life.

_Sweet Saya._

_Will you be as fine sport as the Red Queen? As the Blue?_

Curiosity burns him. But he is content to be patient. To play the sentinel, slinking in the shadows like a mirror image of Saya's Chevalier. To strip away the layers of the villa, one by one, until he is inside.

So he circles, and watches, and learns.

Each day, he grows bolder. From making wide circuits of the perimeter to smaller ones. To skimming whisper-fast across the sand, then dodging the magnetic waves of the security system. They pulsate outward at intervals. Twice in ripples. Thrice in grid-patterns. He memorizes their timings. Each incursion lures him closer and closer toward the villa. He sees the topmost windows flashing in jewel colors. The tiny tropical jungle in the solarium. Saya's small shape bent over a bed of rosebuds. With every pass, he memorizes the delicate details of her. The pretty starfishes of her hands. The pink folds of the frock skimming across her legs. The sweat shining like dew on her skin.

The solarium is her sanctuary. In the blue morning hours, she snips with shears and dabbles with seeds with an almost religious fervor, while her Chevalier sits outside with his cello, tuning the strings while keeping watch from under his dipped eyelashes.

Maybe the daily ritual centers her: the flitting butterflies, the dirt rimming her fingernails, the perfume of life and decay.

She is, Tórir understands, in mourning.

He never actually catches her at it. But from time to time he sees her cheerful bubble go  _pop_. Her eyes go dark as tunnels, her mind falling down a memory hole. Thirty years ago, she'd killed her own sister. Tórir knows the sordid story from the blood of the Red Shield boy.

In his own lifetime, one Queen killing another was sacrilege, so closely twined were the two, a pair of lungs that kept the kingdom breathing. In rare occasions, when one Queen outlived the other, the survivor would sequester herself till the end of her days.

Those rarely lasted long. Most Queens chose death to an eternity without their other self.

Is that why Saya's Chevalier is so vigilant? Certainly, a pall of futility hangs over her. All the requisites to queenship—heirs, lands, titles, armies—are not hers to claim. Not in this era. Without her sister—her sister's Chevaliers—her chance for progeny is also uncertain.

Queens exercised nearly limitless power in Tórir's time. But they were always careful to secure their succession. The strength of the body politic was tied to the fertility of the Queen's own body. Her beddings and pregnancies were never private affairs, but shared with the entire court. Birthings—aberrant or successful—were events the whole realm had a stake in.

But if Saya knows this, she seems not to care.

When not lapsing in a brood, she sometimes behaves as a child does. Gathering seashells by the shore. Splashing in the rain puddles. Knotting her Chevalier's hair into dozens of braids. One evening, at the kitchen window, Tórir catches her listening to the birds twittering in the palm trees. "Scops-owl," she says to herself. Then, to another shrill twittering, "Ryukyu robin." Teaching herself to differentiate between their calls. Another afternoon, he catches her sitting perfectly still at the villa's steps. Soaking in the sunlight as a flower does.

In some ways, her behavior is a replica of Tórir's own. The world is so outsized, so colorful since his imprisonment. Changed in a billion tiny ways that, taken together, are massive. Everything tastes different, smells different. Milk in a cardboard quart. A steak marbled with sizzling bits of fat. A rich dollop of honey spooned from a jar. The juicy crunch of biting into a green apple.

Tórir, even after his rebirth as a Chevalier, has enjoyed human food. In his day, the choices were tasty but spare: seal, fish, seabirds, boiled mutton, potatoes. Occasionally, as a treat, cream sprinkled with brown sugar.

Here, the selections do his head in. Drifting through a supermarket, the fluorescent lights making his eyeballs buzz, he gawps at all the packaged foods, scrupulously orderly and clean. Most are Okinawan. But others come from countries he knows nothing of. America. The United Kingdom. China. New Zealand. Denmark.

His mind, weaned on the specialized ken of doctors, teenagers, security guards and homeless men, is lacking broader context, both global and local.

He must feed on someone with greater knowledge. Someone with an understanding of the world's affairs, and of their shadowy underbelly.

Someone from Red Shield itself?

Staking out again at Saya's villa, he watches her visitors. A burly, gruff-voiced man named Kai. Sayumi and Sayuri, Kai's ostensible daughters, and Queens in their own right. Both of them are pretty, but puny. More mortal than  _mareridt_. Their Chevaliers, V and Sachi, are soldiers too, but of a different breed from Haji. Less disciplined.

Ambushing one of them—alone—would be easy. But that is the problem. No one in the group is ever  _alone_. The family is too cohesive, keeping up a steady stream of visits, texts, phonecalls, outings within a wired web of intimacy.

A web he cannot breach—literally or metaphorically.

 _This is_ , Tórir thinks, as the days go by,  _supremely boring_.

A day-to-day vigil is no fun when you're on the outside, barely looking in.

Then, one night, he gets lucky.

A strip of security sensors in the garden short-circuits. Maybe corroded wiring. Maybe a glitch due to the rainfall. It is barely three feet wide, twenty feet across. But it aims right at Saya's bedroom.

The opportunity is too good to pass up.

He launches himself in a soundless explosion of fabric and flesh. A whistling  _whoosh_ , a breakneck bend, and he's slingshotted from his perch to the ledge of her window. It is open. Just a hair. But he dares not touch it. Likely it is rigged with alarms like everything else in the accursed villa.

So, at a careful crouch, Tórir aligns one eye to the gap. And watches.

That is the first time he sees Saya with her Chevalier. Face-to-face, his fingers in the roots of her spilled hair, her thighs widespread and shaking against his hips. The soft gold glow of tealights limns their rocking bodies. The sound of their breathing reminds Tórir of a whispered prayer in a  _Hof_ —the temples for worship in his heyday. A space where all is silent, the stillness pouring across the wide spaces and into the listener's heart.

A place not of carnality, but communion.

Until Saya's energy flares, and she is no longer still, or silent. Tórir watches it all, swallowing in a throat gone dry. Body flooded with a ghost-dream of wonder. He remembers her small, delicate hands. The nails so deep in the Chevalier's back they draw blood. He remembers her gasps, a silky sibilant  _Yes, oh yes_  that dissolves into cries, shocking cries, inarticulate and soaring, as if something is taking wing inside her. He remembers the Chevalier's hips quickening, controlled movements out of synch with the raw adoration in his eyes.

Both their passions darkening, burgeoning,  _bursting_ —yet what thrills Tórir is the ...catch in her climax. The teeth-clenched restraint. Here, as in battle, she withholds the wildest part of herself.

The truest.

He watches them finish, not in a sudden collapse but in dreamlike increments, their bodies stirring and shuddering, shuddering and stirring, and then melting across the sheets. He watches Saya's eyes flutter open as if lulled out of a trance, her hands lifting to gently stroke her Chevalier's skull through its tangle of dark hair, to let it settle against her breasts. To let him listen, beneath them, to the thrumming musicality of her heart.

Tórir's own heart is beating hard enough to shudder every bone in his body. With effort, he calms himself. Fights not to slip a hand under the waist of his trousers and touch the throbbing hardness there. Inhaling slowly, he catches the briny salt of the sea, and another, more heady scent from the villa's bedroom: something sweet and hot and hormonal.

A Queen in heat.

Later, she dozes. Her Chevalier slips out of bed, smoothing her hair under a gentle palm. In the moon-shot room, he reminds Tórir of a pilgrim gazing upon the temple at Uppsala, all his cool insouciance melted into fervent humility.

Quietly, he gathers up his clothes before quitting the room. Tórir hears a door creak somewhere in the villa, the pipes rumble, the shower come on.

Running water. Another miracle in this future.

Left alone, the tantalizing sight of Queen-on-her-own stirs him. A full-bodied stirring: ten times stronger than anything he'd felt for the Red Queen or the Blue. It is as though his torturous imprisonment, which had mummified all his senses, has only just shattered. Every inch of him is vibrating, hyper-attuned.

Awake.

The desire to go to her—to take  _from_  her, or take her in her entirety?—is so intense his skin itches with it. It is why he understands he'd tracked her down. Something inside her—soul-song, blood-song—calls to him. She is meant to be his possession.

His plaything.

The potential inside her, quashed beneath human frippery, can be coaxed out. Molded. Unleashed. She will struggle against it. But it is the struggle that always sends Tórir. The shock and agony as he peels away his prey's layers one by one. As he forces them to, then past, their physical and psychic limits.

He'd broken the Blue Queen the same way. Driven her to misery, to mewlings, then finally to madness. It had been a satisfying game. But the Blue Queen was never his ultimate prize.

He'd wanted to break the Red.

Break her as she'd broken his father, long ago. Despoil her as the villagers had despoiled his mother. Starve her as Tórir and his brothers had been made to starve. Cripple her as she'd crippled the very core of Tórir's capacity to know joy.

The Red Queen is gone. But here is another, a softer replica. She has all the Red Queen's flash-fire ferocity. But she exudes it quietly, quietly. The control of one afraid to confront the depths of herself.

Tórir smiles. The smile of a bard, or a butcher.

_Sweet Saya._

_I will enjoy playing with you. Will you put up a fight for me?_

He hopes so. It would be no challenge otherwise. And once he is done chipping her mind into powder...

Well.

The body will serve perfectly as a broodmare's.

In the bedroom, Saya stirs. Sits up, glancing around with groggy eyes.

Tórir tenses.

_Can she sense me...?_

It is then that he becomes aware of the noise. A faint  _scrchhhhh-scrchhhh._

It is the roses growing around the walls of the bedroom window. Each one blossoming at uncanny speed, darkening to the richest hue of blue. Each one fed by the lines of energy spinning from his body—or maybe hers?—and into their leafy veins.

The effect Queens and Chevaliers have always had on flora and fauna.  _Seiðr_ , they called it in Tórir's time. Sorcery. Everything a Queen or her progeny touched, they'd enlivened or drained depending on their mood. A magic that could not be explained by mortal tongue, yet here was ample demonstration.

_Let it be my parting gift for her._

_Until we next meet._

In the midst of the blooming roses and the high sea wind, he feels a spike of static. The air around him grows charged with erratic waves.

The security system has come on again. Someone—her Chevalier probably—has noticed the glitch and remedied it.

Overlaying that is the Chevalier's own aura. A cold, precise pocket of darkness.

_He might sense a threat._

It is time for Tórir to leave.

So he does. Barely between one heartbeat and the next, he arches his spine and surges up and away. His wings unfurl in a snap-shutter before slicing through the air, a smooth and straight ascent straight through the night sky. Like a shot of the purest adrenaline.

Like the first gulp of the Red Queen's blood.

He will meet with Saya. But not like this. Not here. To get close to her, the first step it to find a neutral venue. A place where her guard—and Haji's—will drop.

And then the  _fun_  will begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tórir, you massive creep :|
> 
> As mentioned, Saya will meet him in the next-to-next installment. But there'll be plenty of portents and puzzles to keep her occupied in the interim. Let me know if you guys prefer the story to be heading in a different direction, or if there's certain areas you'd like me to focus on!
> 
> "Amuse bouche." = An appetizer, but also a pun on Amuse the Bush.
> 
> "Le mot est un peu sale." = Rather dirty word.
> 
> "Tu as juste un esprit mal tourné." = You just have a dirty mind.
> 
> Review, pretty please!


	14. Killer Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter is up! A little slice-of-life, a little fluff, a little angst - and a weird dash of the supernatural. Tórir is circling closer and closer toward Saya, and will meet her face-to-face in the next installment. Meanwhile the first cracks of strain are showing in Saya and Haji's relationship, and in Saya's own troubled psyche.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! Review, pretty please!

 

T-Galleria

4-1 Omoromachi

Naha 900-0006,

Okinawa Prefecture

"What about this one? Pale apricot."

Saya holds up a gown beneath her chin, a crepey satin with seed pearls sewn into the bodice.

Haji hesitates. "It is nice."

"You said that about the last four dresses."

"They were not... objectionable."

"What does that even  _mean_?"

"...Nice...?"

She sighs. The fluorescent lights in the store do disservice to her complexion, draining it into a wan weariness. The hollows beneath her eyes seem etched in.

This shopping trip was her idea, to get out of the villa. Away from the blue roses, that have sprouted  _everywhere_ : along the walls, across the hedges, inside the solarium.

Discussing their mysterious appearance with Red Shield has yielded no answers. Ezra Silverstein, visiting with an entourage of fellow scientists, has tentatively suggested a pheromone Queens and Chevaliers give off. Something that alters the behaviors of animals and plants alike.

 _"It could something related to your body chemistry,"_  he suggested to Saya.  _"Maybe even Haji's. Some... pheromonal flux. The plants reacted accordingly."_

 _"But why blue roses?"_  Saya asked.

_"That, I'm not sure of. But remember. They grew around Diva's abodes too. It's possible..."_

_"What?"_

Ezra sighed. _"It's possible what's characteristic of one Queen is true of the other. There's plenty of mysteries in your blood we haven't solved yet."_

Hardly the reassurance Saya hoped for.

The last few weeks, Haji has heard her whispering Diva's name in her sleep, or jerking to noises at the window, or gazing at the blue wonderland in the solarium with blind eyes. A fortnight ago, she'd eaten nothing but meat, nearly raw, and refused the twins' fresh-baked cookies or Kai's homemade egg-rolls. Soon after, he'd found her unpacking all the storage boxes from the Zoo, sitting crosslegged among the dust and detritus, as if tracing her own history—or rearranging it. The past few nights, she's begun carrying Diva's crystallized rock around almost defiantly, holding it in her cupped palms, until Haji thinks it will dissolve from all her handling.

Interrogation would be reflexive, but he holds his tongue.

Saya is a fighter. If she finds herself cornered, she tends to come out swinging. The few times he's pushed for answers, she's either erupted into rage—or shut down completely. It is evident this is a sphere of her life (her self?) she refuses to expose.

Yet in other respects, she is sharing more each day. With the deepening of their physical relationship, the shell of stiffness around her is eroding. Less hitches of anxiety when he kisses her. Less stumbling away after sex to hide in the bathroom. Her old traumas are still triggered to the surface now and again. But rarer as time goes on. In bed she is growing kittenish, indulgently playful.

Lovemaking, even at its tender half-speed, has become one of the strongest pulsepoints of their intimacy.

Saya's trust, Haji knows, is never won with talk. But here is one arena where it can be proven with action. They can play together—both as adults and as children. Learning. Failing. Even laughing.

Once, while Haji is commuting from the university, she sends him racy snaps of herself, a sneaky  _ping-ping-ping_  of notifs that make him goggle and nearly drop his phone on the crowded train. Another time, after dinner, she tries a wicked game with mango chutney and his bare skin. Leaves them both smirched and sticky and sated afterwards on the kitchen floor, her spicysweet giggles sounding like how the chutney tasted. A week after that, she invites him into the bathtub with her, great froths of bubbles everywhere, sloshing at the rim and around their heat-slicked bodies, her tickled-pink laughter reverberating off the tiles before it darkens into sighs and moans.

More enlivening still is their headway into domesticity. A word that is usually the flagstaff of Hell, but which Haji senses that Saya enjoys as much as he does.

All of her things have been moved out of Omoro and into her new home. Bit by bit, Saya-spoor begins appearing all around the villa. Her music vinyls are beginning to vie with Haji's for space. Her paperbacks—romances, pulp fictions and graphic novels—are stacked haphazardly on top of Haji's music books. The fridge is stocked entirely with her favorite foods, the freezer with her ice creams. In the music room, she's rediscovered the piano, and sometimes fills the air with charming arpeggios that Haji harmonizes with his cello.

The villa, once a static space, is becoming theirs—not halved but  _shared_.

Haji grows to crave the little rituals. The sight of Saya in her panda-print pajamas at breakfast, rubbing sleep-crumbs from her eyes and cramming  _onigiri_  into her mouth. The sound of her religiously brushing her teeth at bedtime, the childlike  _ptah ptah_  as she spits into the sink. The way she cuddles next to him on the couch in the evenings as they watch old black-and-white films together, her little hand foraging from the popcorn bowl in his lap. Sharing the same bottle of juice. The same laundry basket.

Most nights: the same bed.

Sleeping with her—not the sex, lying beside her as she  _sleeps_ —is still one of the most exhilarating treats for Haji. Spooned up against her each night, moonlight filtering through the blinds and quartering her lovely face in bands of dark and light, he catches himself thinking,  _This can't be real._

He doesn't deserve to be this lucky. Happiness piled upon happiness is an anomaly in real life.

Each time, he is sure there will be no more nightmares for her. Yet each time, there are, and leave Haji spooked.

Because, in the moment between dreams and waking, she rouses with a peculiar expression that is not her own. Sometimes she laughs, but it isn't Saya's laugh. Her voice is languid and breathy, her eyes spectral beneath dipped lashes.

Then she'll blink, her face resuming its familiar contours. She'll stare at him, and ask what's wrong.

Haji never knows what to say.

 _She just needs time,_  he thinks, watching Saya choose gowns at the vintage boutique.  _She will be fine._

 _She_ is _fine._

"I like this hoop-skirt one too," she says. "But it only comes in black. I can't wear black to the event."

"Why not wear one of your Zoo gowns?"

She recoils perceptibly. " _No!_ " Then, softer, "No. I'd have to get them altered. They don't fit anymore."

"Don't fit?"

She colors up. "I was... curvier in those days. Now they'd need padding."

"Ah."

The wisest word a man can utter in such moments.

"Anyway, they're  _relics_. They smell like smoke and mothballs. I want..."

"What?"

Lip bit, she reaches for his hand. "I-I want to look pretty. For you. The twins said this will be a huge event."

Touched, Haji caresses her fingers with his thumb. "It is only a thousand people."

" _Only_?"

"The biggest crowd the  _Philharmonic_  performed for was at Beethovenfest, in 2028. Over seven hundred thousand in attendance. This is merely a fundraiser for the University of Arts."

"Sponsored by the US embassy! And internationally televised!"

"Do not remind me."

He has seen himself on photographs and TV screens before—greyscale profiles inside album covers, or stony behind sunglasses in paparazzi snaps, or posed with a choreography worthy of integral calculus in glossy fashion mags, or unrecognizably sleek and stylized in videos. But he's never been able to fight that cold-water shiver of dissociation, a sense of being on the outside looking in at himself.

Gently, he interlaces his fingers with Saya's. Hers are cold, twitching.

"You need not attend, if it is too troublesome," he murmurs. "It is only a PR sop arranged by our agency. There will be others in the future. At home and overseas."

Hearing this, Saya wilts. "Do—do you not want me there?"

"What? Of course I do. But—"

"But I'd be in the way, right? You've had such a busy life before I interrupted—"

"Saya.  _No_."

His hand tightens around hers. He brings the other, wrapped in the usual white bandages, to caress her jaw. "You interrupted nothing. Except the time I was biding until you arrived."

He is ready to repeat it again and again until she believes it. It is excruciating when she gets this way. Insecure about something which should never be in doubt. His haphazard catapulting into fame was pure chance. The career he'd strung together afterward: pure pragmatism. But the only thing driving him toward a semblance of a goal, was  _Saya_.

Her presence was—will  _always_  be—the heart of his life.

She smiles, a thin layer of candyfloss across the hard bite of uncertainty. "Just biding time? No bacchanalias and saturnalias with groupies?"

"They mean the same thing."

"And  _you_  know what I mean."

"I do." He smiles wryly. "They did not fit into my schedule."

"Do I fit?"

"Of course. You are always—"

"What?"

His voice is matter-of-fact, but within its bland ordinariness is a lick of humor. "Gunpowder, gelatin, dynamite with a laser beam…"

Saya blinks, momentarily caught off-guard. "Did you just quote  _Killer_   _Queen_  at me?"

"I find that it fits." His bandaged thumb strokes her cheek. "As you do."

She blushes and visibly wavers. But beneath, she radiates sorrow, while trying so hard to conceal it from him. If Haji had the nerve, he would gather her in and kiss her, until the aura dispels into the soda-pop fizz of her excitement. But neither of them is comfortable with such blatant displays.

Then again, is there any reason to downplay them?

And so, as they drift through the store, he lets his fingers glide often to her. The small of her back, her shoulder, her arm, their bodies obliquely intersecting as if in a waltz. Saya's lips are set in an enigmatic smile—a coded,  _This is new, but I like it._  In answer, Haji lets his hand stay put, the ordinariness of the gesture an unexpected thrill. Around them, exquisite dresses in rainbow colors are laid on slabs of marble like sacrifices at the altar. The air smells delicately of jasmine.

The boutique is one of Yuri's favorites. They've already visited a handful of others she'd suggested. Nothing piqued Saya's interest, but Haji does not mind. Shopping ranks low on his list of preferred activities. But the nearness of her is a constant thrill. As long as they are together, he will follow her anywhere.

"What about this one? In pink?"

Saya holds up a delicate taffeta construction, pale rose with ribbon flowers embroidered at the bodice.

He nods. "It is pleasant."

"That describes a salad bowl, Haji."

"... Nice...?"

She huffs. "I guess 'nice' is better than 'no.' Okay. Gimme the rest." She gathers the dresses out of his arm and begins walking to the back of the store.

Haji starts after her. "Where—where are you going?"

"The dressing room. To try these on.  _Relax._  I won't be long."

Exhaling, he stands down. Moments like these, he detests the paranoia that takes hold. Since the attack at Sakurazaka Street, he has kept a steady vigil over her. Realistically, he knows there is no need. She is fine, and can handle herself. But other times there is no stopping the dread that rises through him. That something will snatch her away. That she will run away herself, tired of his pestering and prowling.

Haji's understands his impulses are rooted in love. But it is a sad configuration of it. Even here, he cannot love except as her watchdog.

Sinking into a pouf by the changing-room, he does a sweep of the area, instinct meeting habit. As a boy, he'd learnt to channel the chameleon in himself, to blend into places where he was otherwise unwelcome. In the war, he'd learnt to harmonize, to match the flows and connectivities of each location, until disguise became his defining principle.

 _Be neither here, nor there,_  as his grandmother once said.

Scanning the store, Haji keeps an ear to the dressing room. It is full of chatter and rustling fabric. He hears other women, with sisters, friends, mothers, most of them oohing and aahing and critiquing the gowns. He hears the thump of Saya's heartbeat, aligned with his own. She is singing to herself, fragments of an off-key tune that nearly make him smile _._   _She keeps Moet and Chandon/In her pretty cabinet/'Let them eat cake' she says/Just like Marie Antoinette…_

Then he feels it.

The  _zing_  at the base of his neck.

_Trouble._

Without twitching a muscle, Haji lets his eyes trace the periphery. Someone— _something_  is nearby. Watching him.

His eyes go to the hot spots first. Back of the store: three girls, late teens, in T-shirts and shorts. Speaking Mandarin. Probably tourists from Mainland China. Threat probability: low. Left corner: one man, middle-aged and paunchy, with his adolescent daughter. American accents. Nothing alarming. Right corner: two shopgirls, both twenty-somethings. Dressed to the nines, and gossiping in swift Japanese about an absent coworker. Again, nothing to set off his alarms.

Yet something hangs in the air. A tinge of energy—dark, menacing. Sunlight pours through the boutique windows. Bouncy music plays on the speakers. Yet Haji feels like a chilled veneer has dropped over everything.

Then, at the corner of his eye, he glimpses a newcomer.

A man. Tall and lean and wide-shouldered. He wears a navy blazer, a white buttondown shirt, dark khakis. They hang well on him. Yet Haji gets the sense they were tailored for a stockier man. As if they've been borrowed, like his scuffed loafers, on short notice.

But if the attire is ill-fitting, the man doesn't show it. He moves with the strong strides of a Viking crossing the fjords. His reddish hair curls well past the collar of his shirt. His face is all angles—sharp-cut and almost regal—but what Haji notices is the gaze.

The man has heterochromia. His eyes are different colors. One red. One blue.

They give him an uncanny, almost preternatural air. Like a demon.

The newcomer slips through the jingle-belled door without sound. He crosses the store the same way.

Without sound.

Haji watches him peruse the gowns on display. His mismatched eyes skim across them carefully, taking in each detail. He looks intrigued by the fabrics, the designs and textures. Yet he also appears to be marking time, or doing a superb impression of a man marking time.

 _Perhaps he is waiting for someone_.

_Or perhaps he is bored and dropped inside for something to do._

And yet it doesn't explain the vibe he gives off. Haji has spent decades observing other people, cataloging dangerous auras. He has learnt to differentiate the wolves from the sheep.

No one can fully conceal a lifetime's intimacy with violence. The most toughened men are the easiest to spot: gangbangers, ex-cons, soldiers like Vicente who radiate trouble beneath the boyish bonhomie. A second breed, as well-acquainted with violence, are the ciphers. Men like Sachi, who exist as blurs in the photograph, yet look like they belong anyway. Part of the big picture. The third type, the hardest to spot, are the shapeshifters. The ones who don't invert their vibe so much as reconstruct it into a softer persona. Predators who are so adept at hiding that they could be mistaken for prey.

Haji knows this type because it is what he and Saya are.

This stranger telegraphs the same aura. Something in his eyes, the angles of his face, his body-language, that doesn't quite fit with the rest of him. Something the conscious mind doesn't recognize, but which the primitive mid-brain flags as unusual.

_Who is he?_

Haji rises and cricks his neck, the motion casually choreographed. The stranger's head turns his way. Haji knows it would. Movement always draws the eye.

When their gazes meet, the stranger nods, politely. Yet there is something in his eyes. Something almost... mocking.

As if—

"Well. What do you think?"

Saya is back. Her hair is rumpled from shimmying into and out of the gowns. But her smile is like wavering candlelight.

She is wearing the pink gown. Her shoulders swell up smooth and peachy from the off-the-shoulder neckline, marred only by the straps of her brassiere. The skirt hangs in flounces; evidently there will be petticoats to give it fullness. The bodice fits awkwardly in a few places: there are hooks in the back that she has buttoned haphazardly. On her feet, she still has on her dusty pink sneakers.

Altogether she looks nothing like the Saya of the Zoo.

Yet so lovely for all that, maybe lovelier because of it.

 _Don't say 'nice',_  her gaze warns.  _Anything but 'nice.'_

Haji smiles instead.  _Beautiful._

Pleased, Saya declares the gown her final choice. At the counter, while the salesperson wraps the purchase up, Haji gets out his wallet. "Let me buy this for you."

"No, please." She smiles, but her eyes reflect discomfort. "My clothes, my cash. That's the Rule, remember?"

The Rule. Of course.

Sighing, he backs down. While Saya pays for the dress, his eyes, for the briefest moment, flick across the store again.

At the door, the bell jingles. The red-haired man has exited.

Yet in his wake, a stale miasma of  _Threat_  remains.

* * *

By the time Saya has picked out shoes, jewelry, and other accessories, the tension of the mysterious encounter fades—but isn't forgotten.

Haji keeps it at the back of his mind, a fishbone caught between the teeth of his thoughts, worrying at it until it is dislodged. A leftover habit from the war: back then, he and Saya were always under threat, ready to attack or be attacked in turn. Even now, there are times when Haji feels the new world they inhabit is no less volatile; its predators as deadly as genocidal Chevaliers and shadowy organizations, the sunlit familiarity a deceptive cover for the darkest shadows.

Or perhaps it's simply Saya.

Now, as then, her safety is the fulcrum of Haji's existence. The catalyst to joy or despair.

Today, joy is foremost. They walk together down the crowded streets. The sun hangs low in the evening sky, hitting the buildings at a rich golden slant. Saya licks an ice-cream cone—vanilla with rainbow sprinkles. Sometimes she stops to offer Haji a bite, giggling at the daubs of vanilla on his nose. The sound of her laughter is pure sweetness.

He's taken the shopping bags from her, and taken the outside of the sidewalk so she can traipse freely—one of the small, automatic chivalries he's been raised to abide to since boyhood. Yumi and Yuri often tease that he's  _Old-fangled_. By which they mean he still follows the unspoken etiquette of another century: holding the door open for a lady, offering her his seat on a subway, never referring to an acquaintance by first name unless invited to, seldom cursing or engaging in foul talk when in mixed company.

The well-bred gestures of Old Money—which is hilarious because he is anything but.

He and Saya stop to watch a street performance at the sidewalk, and he thinks:  _Case in point._

The trio performers—barely teenagers—are doing acrobatics for a small crowd. Two of them, in colorful leotards, are balanced on tall unicycles, circling in smooth arcs around their audience while juggling a handful of flaming torches at terrific speed.

In their circle, their youngest member plays a rock tune on a traditional  _sanshin_ , his fingers furling across the strings with the flickering swiftness of a card-deck shuffled.

Watching them, Haji recalls another life. The creak and sway of crowded caravans. The precarious voyages off the edges of the map, a nomadism fueled less by wanderlust than necessity. Mornings with the horses nudging him from sleep on sour-smelling hay. Afternoons spent chopping firewood, hauling water, hunting game, and caring for his younger siblings. Evenings spent camping along the outskirts of cities, enacting feats of derring-do for crowds. Nights with his family crowded around the campfire, mutton roasting and beer flowing as they counted their earnings.

His tribe were  _Руска_   _Рома_ —Ruska Roma, hailing from the predominantly-Muslim Caucasus. Not pureblood,  _tacho_ , by any means: Haji's genes were a scrambled egg of intermarriage, his father's ancestry the yolk of dark-haired, dark-skinned Rom Xoraxai, his mother's a paler albumin of Xaladitka. Haji had inherited the raven hair and long-legged build of one, and the fair coloring and blue eyes of the other.

 _My sweet mariki_ , his mother would tease, nicknaming him for the traditional flatbread pastry.  _My whey-faced boy._

 _Please!_ his grandmother would scoff, scooping Haji into her arms.  _Not a pinch of salt in the gadje's faces. My boy has all the cream—and twice their spice._

His family made good use of his paucity of pigmentation. In marketplaces, his older cousins made him the bawling distraction for merchants, while the rest of them fanned out and stole fruits from their stalls. During performances, they'd make him the cherub-cheeked lure. Solemnly enticing strangers to come closer as the performance unfurled, and convincing them to happily part with their coins afterward.

But they'd had to be careful. Stereotypes of 'gypsies' as baby-snatchers abounded in every city. If authorities suspected—on the flimsiest of visual proof—that a child didn't belong to a Romani tribe, they'd take him away, no questions asked.

 _Maybe it's better that way?_  his father had sometimes brooded.  _He'd have an easier life._

Haji's mother always protested to such talk, even daring to raise her voice. But his father always silenced her by asking if she'd rather see her son starve.

Which wasn't too far from the truth.

Haji's last few years with his family were hard ones. Three cities had barred their tribe entrance. The fourth's had destroyed their caravans, killed their livestock, and brutalized his brothers and sisters, forcing them to retreat to the woods.  _Go back where you came from, filthy gyppies_. They had lived for a while off the land, but the winter was harsh, and the animals sickened and died.

Those last frozen months, Haji remembers that everyone was hungry. He'd caught birds, squirrels, even worms—but it was never enough. The emptiness of his belly had sapped away his strength, turning his thoughts to white-noise.

The well-dressed  _gadje_  from the city came not long after.

Haji remembers them standing at the edges of the camp, as if disdaining to come closer and sully their expensive suits. Their eyes sized up Haji as one might a calf to be slaughtered. After exchanging a few words with his father, one of their burly guardsmen had stepped into the camp, seized Haji's arm, and hauled him off.

Too shocked to think, Haji had struggled, kicking the man's shins and biting his fingers. In answer, he'd been struck sharply on the mouth. Tasting blood, Haji had called out to his parents. They hadn't answered. As the man hauled him off, he'd craned his neck, searching for them.

They stood at the door of their caravan. Watching, doing nothing. His mother had tears in her eyes, and his father had averted his, staring at the heavy loaf of bread cradled in his arms.

Then the man flung Haji inside a carriage, and slammed its doors shut.

Haji remembers that day without bitterness. Time has dulled the ache; the bright solace of Saya's company erases it entirely. He would go anywhere for Saya. It must be so if he is here, years and miles later, watching the graceful orbits of the jugglers, the flames from their torches leaping like firecrackers into the rosy sunset.

Saya sighs, enthralled. "They're  _good_."

"They are."

"I wish I could try that." Pouting, "I've gotten no  _real_  exercise in ages."

He crooks a brow. "We could remedy that at home."

She flushes at the intimation. "Not  _that_! I meant—like a spar. Or a fight."

"A fight?"

Since the ugliness at Sakurazaka Street, they've kept such exertions to a minimum: lights workouts and  _katas_. Haji privately hasn't thought her ready to resume anything more violent. And Saya, sensing his reticence, hasn't pushed.

Until now.

"We could do a few rounds afterward," he concedes. "As long as—"

"It's not too strenuous. I  _know_." Sighing, she finishes the rest of her ice cream. Her eyes return to the jugglers. Quieter: "Don't you ever miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"Traveling. Coming and going as you please. Being  _free_."

He gives her a look mixed with curiosity and care. "I am hardly in chains at the moment."

"Yes, but—you know what I mean. You were a normal person once. You could live where and how you chose. You'd moved around since you were a boy, right?"

"Yes." He hesitates. "That was different. My family went only where it was safe to go. Often, that was nowhere. So we had no choice but to ingratiate ourselves with the locals."

"Ingratiate?"

"With performances like these. With dancing and fortune-telling." A bitter half-smile. "If you dress up your strangeness with charm, you become a caricature. People are less inclined to see you as a threat. But they will never see you as a person, either."

Saya's eyes darken with sympathy. Over time, she's collaged together stories about his past, each with a strict degree of self-censorship on Haji's part. But that doesn't mean she's incapable of making inferences about the darker remainder.

"Charm, hm?" she says, having a half-hearted go. "I saw none of that when you came to the Zoo. In fact, one of Amshel's biggest complaints was how a boy trained to fake smiles could be so bad-tempered."

That gets a  _real_  smile out of him. "He was my captor. Not my audience."

"We were all your captors, weren't we?" Her mouth droops at the edges. "They bought you for me like a plaything. And I was so selfish, I didn't even realize it. I made your first few weeks absolutely miserable."

"As I recall, I made it no easier for you."

"That's different. You had every reason to be angry. Taken away from your family and sent… someplace awful." She sighs. "Afterward, I had all these plans to make you feel safe. To  _take care_  of you. But the longer we've known each other, the more you've taken care of  _me_."

Her gaze is downcast as she says this, betraying the heaviness of retrospect. Gently, Haji touches her arm, easing her away from the precipice of memory.

"I would not take back a moment of it, Saya," he murmurs.

The lines of her face relax, but not entirely. "But don't you ever miss it? Your old life? Your real family?"

He frowns. "In the early days, perhaps. When the culture-shock was at its worst. But less and less as time went on." He reaches out to fit his palm to the curve of her cheek. " _You_  became my family. My entire world."

Her eyelashes dip, pink splotching her cheeks. She isn't used to soft-talk from him—even as tame as this. Her pleasure with it makes her bashfully girlish.

It's a side of her Haji hasn't seen before. A century spent at her side, yet it astonishes him that there are still gaps in his understanding of her. Sometimes he even has the fanciful idea of her as living a double life, a secret second life, like a mysterious black cat that slips out to prowl the streets only after dark.

 _A woman's mind in a nutshell,_ Joel would say.

It's not so simple, of course. Her psyche still bears the scars—fading but visible—of past traumas. Yet that makes the moments where she opens up to him all the more pricelessly sweet.

When the performers conclude their act, he and Saya applaud with the rest of the onlookers. The boys pass around a hat, working the crowd for money. Haji places a ¥2000 note into the pile of coins, the equivalent of $20.

Saya glances at him, then turns away with a smile.

"Spendthrift," she says, and they resume strolling.

"Oh?"

"When it comes to buskers and the service class. Otherwise the twins say prying cash out of you is like pulling teeth."

"I was not raised to live extravagantly." A beat, "Although perhaps it is time to start."

"Start?"

He skims his knuckles along her arm. "I was hoping to spend the royalties from the  _Philharmonic_  on you. A few gifts, perhaps."

Flinching, she jerks away. "Don't do that. Please."

"What?"

"I already feel like a pet cat in the villa. I don't want to sponge off you on top of that."

This stuns him. "Saya—you know that isn't—"

She turns away. "Isn't it? It's not like I have a job of my own. Or income pouring in so we can pool our resources, like other couples do. All I do anymore is this nutcase-life-of-leisure…"

Haji winces inwardly at the  _Nutcase_ , but lets it go. "There is nothing wrong with resting, Saya. Not after everything you have endured. Nor is there any harm in pursuing other interests. I had hoped..."

"What?"

"With the war over, I had hoped to spoil you a little. To see you indulge yourself, with a clear conscience."

Saya's eyes darken, mouth a twist of discomfort. "'Clear conscience.' Is there even such a thing?"

"Saya—"

"Maybe it comes with other stuff? A purpose. A full life. Like the one you have with the  _Philharmonic_. Or teaching at the university. No matter the state of your personal affairs, you've found a niche, haven't you?"

This is true, but it still warrants disputing, because it isn't so simple. "Just because I—"

"It's different for me, Haji.  _This_  is different. Cosseting me won't fix it."

"But—"

"Please. Let's get off the subject."

Such a commonplace remark, as if they're lovers who've had tiff about finances, instead of two burned-out warriors whose sole purpose has fallen to pieces with the conclusion of the war. They've always been a well-matched fighting pair. But in the rout and rush of battle, it's easy to neglect certain issues. To fail to understand each other, and the peculiarities of their relationship.

Now they are in a new setting, playing out complex roles beyond anything their past has prepared them for. In the space left by their collapsed identities is inequality and uncertainty, which Haji can only avert his eyes in the face of.

Except that gesture evokes his father, who'd turned away from the cries of his son, head bent as if there were more important things in the grand scheme of things. Like a loaf of bread.

Nothing is more important than Saya.

Breaking the stricture of old habit, he catches her arm. They are at the tranquil garden-square of Fuzhou, right where it edges toward Naminoue Beach. To the villa festooned with blue roses, another reminder of the inherent strangeness of their lives, their selves.

But also a reminder that the past needn't eclipse the gift of the present.

"Perhaps it is too soon for a clear conscience," he says. "Or perhaps it will never be clear. But do not deny yourself happiness for its own sake, Saya. Not because your guilt dictates that you atone for the rest of your life."

Grimness edges her expression. "So I should forget the past and just live off you?"

"I never said that. But I do believe I am permitted, after all these years, to share with you everything I have."

"How is that fair? I have nothing to share with you in return."

Haji stares at her. "Do you truly believe that?"

"It's true! What else do I have to offer except—"

In answer, he gathers her in. The evening wind flirts with their dark hair, tangling it together at the tips, and the sky is its deepest red, a fiery spread pricked with luminous stars. The contrasts replicate themselves in Saya's eyes, blood and brightness, and Haji lowers his head and kisses her with a tenderness that is purely reflexive, both of them folded close in the quiet square and uncaring of anything else.

Breaking off, he puts his lips to her ear. "Do you feel wrong when we do this?"

"W-what?" No," she breathes, dizzied.

"Then it shouldn't matter either, what makes you happy. Or how you live your life—as long as you do." He touches his forehead to hers. "Please, Saya. Take it from someone who has come from nothing. There is no virtue in suffering endlessly. Such an existence is lonely and wasteful."

Saya won't look at him. But she doesn't break away either. "I-I know. It's just—it's too strange. Pretending to be normal. Pretending nothing's changed."

"Then do not pretend. We cannot be normal as other people are. We both know that. But that does not mean we cannot be ourselves."

She bites her lip.

"Can't we, Saya?"

Her body is taut with residual resistance. But in her eyes, like a needle of hope pricking the surface, love wells into a drop of blood, a fire opal of purest life. Poised to fall between them, to shatter and leave stains. Or to be caught up in a heartfelt promise.

Then her eyes slide past his body, and she stiffens. "Oh God."

Haji turns. In the pale nimbus of the street-lanterns, a dark shape uncoils through the grass. A  _habu_ —the poisonous pit vipers endemic to the Ryukyus. Their mating season begins in the early summer, so it isn't unusual to glimpse them near woodpiles, rocks or greenery. Phantoms hiding in plain sight.

This one is different. Jet-black, and unsettlingly long. The longest snake Haji has ever seen. Its scales shimmer with the hallucinatory radiance of gasoline rainbows. It glides forward the same way, a liquid spill, its body whispering along the grass.

In the dying sunset, its eyes are peculiarly blue.

"That's—" Saya whispers.

"What?"

"That's the snake I saw. When we first drove up to the villa."

He absorbs this with a frown. "It is not native to the island."

"What?"

"It resembles a  _tokarahabu._ But it is bigger than any I have seen. And the eyes—"

She nods, unnerved. "They're so blue. Like they're glowing from inside."

"Perhaps it is an exotic pet." He slips a hand into his coat pocket, drawing out his phone. "I will call the neighborhood snake catcher—"

"Or maybe it's not a snake at all," Saya whispers.

"What?"

His Queen doesn't answer. Her eyes have a faraway, filmy quality. As if she is suspended in a dream. A strange energy—bright-dark, hot-cold—crackles in the air around her.

Then Haji feels it again.

That  _zing_  along his nape.

_Trouble._

On reflex, his eyes flick to where a man is standing at the far-corner of the garden. Away from the drowsy ambit of the streetlight, his shadow stretches in a serpentine twist across the grass, the body a solid mass of blackness.

Like the snake itself.

Haji can't discern his features: they seem fluid, distorting and reshaping themselves in the flickering gloom.

Yet there is a cold impression of mismatched eyes.

Haji's eyes narrow.  _Is that the same man from the boutique—?_

"Oh!" Saya gasps.

Refocusing, Haji follows her eyes to the snake. It has vanished. Yet Haji catches the sense of shapes, cartwheeling and cavorting, in the granular edges where light erodes into dark. He swears, for a split-second, he sees… things. Faces. They coalesce from thin air, solidifying and dissipating, a swirl of eerie movement, a spinning orb, a starburst shadow, gathering force and charging at him and Saya—

He jerks.

But there is nothing there. The grass. The streetlights. The sunset.

The snake is gone. And where the mysterious man once stood, there is only an ambiguous veil of shadow.

* * *

"A circus animal?" Kai suggests, later at the villa.

"It might be."

"We could always put a message out. Maybe there's a reward? Like five years ago, remember? For the rare anaconda who ate a pet cat."

"Perhaps."

"I'm more worried about the weirdo at the park." As he speaks, Kai field-strips his firearm, the disassembled parts spread out across an old newspaper on the table. Each movement is methodical, as if preparing ingredients for  _champuru_. "The cops are on high alert already. First that double-murder at Uruma. Then a doctor at Lester Naval reported that his fiancée was missing. And on top of that we're still not sure who attacked Adam…"

Haji nods. "There has been a spike in violence lately."

"It could mean trouble. Or nothing at all." Kai crooks a brow. "What if the guy following you was a reporter? With the concert coming up, the city's buzzing with paparazzi."

"As troublesome as serial killers."

They are in the villa's basement/training-area. Both side-by-side at the worktable, Haji cleaning his daggers with a whetstone and damp rag while Kai performs Sunday-night maintenance on his M1911 pistol.

The training-room, far from a dank subterranean box, is sterile and well-lit, like the inside of a refrigerator. Heavybags hang like slabs of meat from the ceiling. The floors are a smooth white marble, temperature-controlled and padded with tatami mats. The walls are arrayed with weapons: scimitars, scythes, sais, swords.

In the fluorescent glow of the sparring platform, the twins, and their Chevaliers, are playing a ball game: part cross-spar, part keep-away. It is noisy and energetic—V propelling through the defense with the force of a speedrail to fling the ball into the hoop, Yuri taking a fantastic ballerina leap to knock it away in mid-air, Sachi cutting her off with the shutter-snap choreography of a dragonfly, only to be blitzed by Yumi's crashtackle, the gas in her pistons explosive.

The air vibrates with their shouts and screeches.

"On your left, lazy butt!"

"C'mon Yuri! Knock his block off!"

"Your  _other_  left, god-fucking-dammit!"

"Foul! Foul! No elbows!  _Isaidnoelbows_!"

Kai watches them with a dry, uncomplicated pleasure. "They're like that old song…"

"Song?"

"Y'know. The fight song. The street fighting one."

Haji frowns. "Street Fightin' Man?"

"No, the other one." Taking the gun barrel, Kai runs a solvent-wet cloth down the bore. "From that Jackie Chan film. The Kung Fu one."

"They are  _all_  Kung Fu films."

"Not the film. The  _song_. Kicks were fast as lightnin', womp womp, little bit frightening—shit, now it's stuck in my head." Kai hums it with an off-key implacability.

Haji sometimes thinks the younger man would've made a good jukebox. For the Spanish Inquisition. "The Carl Douglas one?"

" _Bingo_." Kai snaps his oily fingers. "Catchy. Yet borderline racist."

Haji raises a brow. "I assume you have never heard  _Brown Sugar_."

"That by Carl Douglas too?"

"The Rolling Stones."

"Oh.  _Those_  guys. Aren't they still alive? I heard they're touring Japan this year."

"Maybe they're Chiropterans."

The men glance around.

Saya has light-skipped down the stairs and into the training-room without Haji hearing her come in. She is dressed in jeans and a faded pink T-shirt, her newly-washed hair scraped back in a sloppy ponytail. Looking at the smooth Sayaness of her face, it is impossible to tell that anything unusual occurred during their outing earlier.

Yet the shaded dips of her eyes and the tautness of her shoulders give Haji hints of what she is trying to conceal, a body zitzing with unease. She'd been quiet when they'd come home. She drank the smoothie he'd whipped up for her without enthusiasm, then spent a long time alone in the bath. Haji had listened through the door to her splashing quietly, sometimes mumbling to herself, and wondered if she was trying to appear calm for his sake.

The sight of the snake—mystifying, menacing—had clearly rattled her. Nearly as much as that unknown man had troubled Haji. If he shuts his eyes, he can still see the sharp-etched silhouette, loaded with sinister portent…

Which is ridiculous.

The snake probably escaped from a zoo. And the man was just an ordinary stranger, one of the hundreds whose path crossed Haji's and Saya's each day in the city.

_I am imagining things._

_That is all._

Then he meets Saya's eyes, and falters. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Except her gaze, heavy-lidded and red-rimmed, refuses to orient on him. Tension fizzes off her. "I was just, um—"

"Yes?"

"I was hoping for a spar."

"With the twins?"

"With you." Her smile sits awkwardly on her face. "You promised a hand-to-hand, remember?"

"What? Right now?" Frowning, Kai finishes cleaning the excesses from the bore of the gun. "I was gonna move the party upstairs. Whip up  _rafute_  with BBQ sauce."

"In a bit," Saya says. Then she glances at Haji. "Come on. You can have your pick of weapons."

"Weapons? Saya, there is no need for—"

"Please?"

She jitters in place, as if powered by ten cups of coffee. Sighing, Haji makes himself relent. Maybe this is her way of taking his earlier conversation to heart? About navigating normality as it suits her. Maybe she's tired of being treated like a dainty doll, and wants to prove to them—to herself—that she is fine. The attack on those men in Sakurazaka Street was a fluke. She hasn't lost her grip: on her mind, her body, or the moment.

He tells himself it is a good sign. An exercise in trust. Yet something about her manner is... off-kilter.

A repression so forceful he can  _feel_  it.

Kai breaks up the game between Yumi, Yuri and their Chevaliers with a paternal shout. They disperse to the sidelines. Their expressions are excited: the popcorn behavior of film buffs settling in to watch a cult-classic.

Saya and Haji take their place in opposite ends of the reed mat. Haji's daggers spin in his hands with perfectly-balanced precision. Ahead, he watches Saya shake her limbs loose, circling like a racehorse at the starting gate. She seems in good shape, all things considered: graceful, no stiffness.

Kai tosses a rapier from the rack at her. She catches hers neatly, pivoting it in her hand like an expert bladesman.

Then proceeds to nearly skewer Haji with it, before he adjusts his expectations, and counterblocks. Steel meets steel with a shrill  _clang_.

"Saya. It is proper to wait for the  _en garde_ —"

Her rapier flashes like lightning, whistling scant millimeters from his skull.

" _Prépare-toi, en garde, soit bon_."

Again, her blade zigzags in the air. He evades on tenterhooks. She is as  _fast_  as ever.

" _Comme vous voulez_ , Saya."

He half-smiles, but she doesn't. Instead, she slices through the air, charging at him like a ballistic missile.

Haji is aware of the rapt gazes of the twins and their Chevaliers. They hoot and cheer at first, but soon fall silent. Like him, they are comprehending that this is no friendly spar. Sparring involves trust and communication, like any two-way relationship. You trust your opponent not to ventilate you full of holes, and to not pull their punches at the same time. After the session, you communicate shortcomings and suggestions for improvement, egos set aside in an effort to come together and learn.

Saya isn't interested in that. She is fighting like her life depends on it. Haji starts out not fully engaging, keeping it light and evasive, a demonstration for the audience. But Saya soon demolishes his distance, forcing him to recalculate his defense, until they are clashing for real.

The  _cling-clang_  of their blades echoes through the training-space. Sparks flying, steel flashing. And Saya herself: radiating a ferocity Haji has only ever seen at the zenith of battle: scarily focused and blazing-hot, her eyes blank as a predator's. It disturbs him. Has she clocked-out again? Like at Sakurazaka Street? Like the night of the car-accident?

It would make sense. Except her form is phenomenal, her finesse unmatched. Good as she always is, this display is  _extraordinary_.

Yet her face is a mask. Unrecognizable to him, as if beneath the familiar lineaments of Saya's features there sits a stranger. A powerful force, immensely old and deadly, pulling the strings of her muscles like a marionette.

Their swords cross with a  _whang_ , spitting blue scintillas.

And she laughs.

A familiar laugh: high and exquisitely melodic.

Absolutely mad.

The hairs stand up on the back of Haji's neck. There is a hitch in his concentration—shock, disorientation.

Then Saya's rapier sinks into his chest.

It isn't a harmless graze. It drives right through, sliding between the space in his ribs. The blinding-red eruption of  _pain_  sends him staggering.

In the next beat, he's knocked flat on his back.

Saya stands over him, rapier upraised, and is in the act of delivering the killing-blow. Behind her, Kai cries out, "Saya! Saya,  _stop_!"

She looms over Haji, panting. Her glowy eyes give off a ferocious heat. For a moment, Haji is sure she will pierce right through his heart. Then she pales, and staggers back. Shock wrenches her features.

"Oh—oh God.  _Haji_!"

The rapier clatters away. She drops to her knees, reaching to examine the torn hole in his chest, bubbling blood with each exhale.

Behind her, Kai approaches slowly. " _Jesus_ , Saya. What just happened?"

"I don't—I don't know." Her eyes are moist with tears, lower-lip trembling. From Boadicea to Alice in Wonderland in three heartbeats—stunned by a fall down the rabbit-hole of her psyche. "I didn't mean to take it that far."

_Take what that far?_

Agony sings through Haji. Inhaling, he forces himself to sit up. The blow had missed his heart by a quarter-inch. With every pulsebeat, blood sluices out, first in messy gouts, then in a thinning trickle as the hole closes. If he weren't so accustomed to being Fate's pin cushion, he might—

"Ow."

He hisses through his teeth as Saya touches the ruined red pucker. Her face has taken on that stricken expression he never likes to see. As if something has spiraled beyond her control.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I thought—I could keep a lid on it."

Haji frowns. "Keep a lid on what?"

She doesn't answer. Kai, the twins and their Chevaliers are gathered in a half-circle around his splayed body and her crumpled one. Kai's brow holds that familiar furrow, his body-language wired, as if readied to draw a weapon or create a diversion. Behind him, Sayumi and Sayuri are uneasily captivated, as if witnessing the aftermath of a spectacular lightning-strike. Sachi has beads of faint sweat on his brow, and V whistles, half-horrified, half-admiring.

"Doesn't play around, does she?" he mutters. "Killer Queen through and through."

Saya winces, dropping her head. Haji wants to tell V to shut up.

Instead, he brings up the cradle of his palms to Saya's cheeks. She blinks wetly, and shivers. Her eyes meet his with a hangdog bleariness, and something in him aches, a deep-down throb that has nothing to with the wound.

"Keep a lid on what, Saya?" he repeats gently. "Did you... have a flashback?"

She shakes her head.

"What then? A black-out?"

He halfway hopes she'll say yes. That would explain everything: the aggression, the disconnection, that spine-crawling  _laugh_...

Again, Saya shakes her head. Tears spill past the gummed spikes of her eyelashes. Sobbing, she falls into his arms, and Haji encircles her close, crushing her to his chest without a care for the seeping wound. His eyes meet Kai's over her dark head. The other man seems bewildered by the meltdown, and the blitzkrieg that preceded it. Haji himself doesn't quite understand what happened. He struggles to stay still, to control his questions, while Saya pours out against his chest an incoherence of misery that she has never revealed before, like something inside her in breaking.

"It's me," she gulps, the words ragged, wretched. "It's all me."

"Ssh."

He lets her unhappiness beat against him until it ebbs, rocking her gently and murmuring her name. Yet, as he closes his eyes, flotsam from the day clings to his mind... sunset and juggling torches, the dark slither of the snake, a stranger watching him with mismatched eyes, the candelabra-crash of Diva's laughter and Saya's face a pale knot of distress, all of it piling together in a heap of the darkest red within the present.

Pieces of an unsolved puzzle.

Or portents of future catastrophe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Haji. Impaled yet again...
> 
> "Prépare-toi, en garde, soit bon" - The fancy way of saying en garde
> 
> "Comme vous voulez" - As you like.
> 
> Regarding Haji's background: I've often headcanoned that his family was primarily Ruska Roma (With roots in Eurasian Caucasus) with the family fallen on dire enough times to warrant them selling their son to strangers. A lot of stink is raised about what 'race' the Romani are, which is silly because their ethnicities are fragmented across genomic and geographical lines, with different members of the Romani even arguing about whose heritage and definitions mean what.
> 
> For simplicity's sake, they're mostly of European and South Asian ancestry, which designates them as Caucasian. (In the US, the term in conflated with 'white' but it actually refers to populations from Russia, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Turkey, Iran... all the way up to Asia and the Horn of Africa.)
> 
> Given that Haji would've been taken to the Zoo in the late 1800s, when the toxic categorization of scientific racism was at its zenith, a light-skinned blue-eyed boy would've been easier to accept into the family's fold, much in the fashion of passe blanc and plaçage. To this day, many Romani families live in paranoia of their fair-skinned children getting taken away on the pretext that they don't "look like" them - but in Haji's case it could've been a voluntary relinquishment to ensure upward social mobility.
> 
> That's my two cents, anyway. Let me know what y'all think!
> 
> Comments are yummy and fill my fanficcing tummy! c:


	15. Sprezzatura (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14! :D
> 
> It was shorter than some of the others, so I got done with it early. Saya and Tórir finally meet - and weird freaky shit happens. Expect angst, fluff and flashbacks. The First Act is coming to a close in the next few chapters! I'll likely take a break before getting started on Act II, but here's hoping it's not overly long...
> 
> As always, heaps of love for the feedback y'all are leaving this monstrosity. I do a little happy dance with each one! Your comments are so dear and delicious to me c:
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review!

 The concert is held at the Shikinaen Royal Garden.

The University of Arts, in affiliation with the US Consulate, has set up brilliant white marquees across the space. The interiors of starcloth and chandeliers shed a crystalline glow across the elegant curls of chairs, the ivory tablecloths, the centerpieces of floating candle bowls with artfully arranged black-and-white roses.

The wide dais for the orchestra is outdoors, surrounded by lush grassland and cherry trees. Glimpsed among the silky pink boughs, the shell-shaped stage is a magnificent  _pièce de résistance._

Drifting through the crowds, Saya is too overwhelmed to take anything in. She's seen the memorabilia of the  _Philharmonic_  at the villa. She's watched old Youtube clips of interviews and concerts. She's pored through magazine clippings tucked into Kai's old albums.

Yet it doesn't prepare her for the scale of the event.

She is dumbstruck by the news-media crowding the parking-lot. Reporters and cameramen are  _everywhere_. Chimera lights blaze; microphones and boom poles are arranged helter-skelter. The shouts in different languages create a claustrophobic haze where all communication is reduced to abbreviated sentences.

 _"The death of nuance,"_  Haji calls it—a struggle not to be understood but simply heard.

 _No wonder Haji wanted me to arrive with Kai instead of him_ , Saya thinks _. I'd be too freaked out by the attention._

_Scratch that._

_I already am._

In the gardens, it is thankfully private. Crowds of people eddy under the moonlight: brightly-dressed in gowns and dignified in tuxedos. The soft conversation floats skyward in an amorphous fog. Most of the audience is middle-aged, but Saya is startled to see several twentysomethings and teenagers.

Then again, the  _Philharmonic_  has always been a friend to post-millennials. Fearlessly forward-looking, they continue to spice up their diet of antique favorites, such as Barber's  _Adagio for Strings,_ with collaborations alongside up-and-coming artists.

Tonight, they will be performing, among the popular pieces in their repertoire, the works of a Japanese  _enfant terrible_  with a taste for rock opera. Haji has played her some of the recordings during the two-week rehearsal. Saya was entranced by it: twinges of bass guitar floating like ghostly blue static over shimmers of violin, playful arpeggios of piano undercut by the purity of their mezzo soprano's voice rising at a high C for several bars before the chorus begins.

" _An avant garde migraine_ ," Haji said, but with a smile.

He's playing off the concert as no big deal. But Saya can tell he is excited.

There has been a gleam to his eyes the last few days, a low-key intensity to his manner. She's often caught him in the music room at the tip of dawn, playing cello with a magician's meticulousness to get the timing right. Other nights, she's been roused awake to hear him on the cellphone with the composer, or having long-distance tryouts on remote software with bandmates. In the afternoons, he is often gone on rehearsals. But when he returns, he always greets her with kisses of exceptional ardor—even for him—before sweeping her upstairs.

Lying dazed and trembling in bed afterwards, Saya gets the sense that he derives from these comings-together the same inspiration as an artist with his muse. Sparks of creativity infusing his body with every touch, stoking the complex engine inside him to keep him going for the rest of day.

It gratifies her. Moreso because it means he's forgiven her for the attack in the training room. Yet, going over it, she still experiences a full-bodied spasm of chagrin. She remembers the liquid squelch of her blade passing through his chest. Remembers the shocky blankness in Haji's eyes—and the piercing shards of her own laughter.

Except it wasn't her laugh at all.

It was  _Diva's_.

Since that night, tension has kept thrumming through her body. Nothing eases it: not sex, not swimming, not snacks, not swordplay, not solitude in the solarium. Her dreams make it worse: a riot of hissing snakes and burning-blue eyes, her skin caked in blood the color of tar.

Portent? Delirium?

She isn't sure. Plunked down in her family's midst after thirty years, her own strangeness seems more pronounced than ever. She can't remember the last time she's done something with the certainty that it's what she's meant to be doing.

She can't tell Haji that. It will only worry him, and make him cut his work short. He will once again start suggesting travel, or sessions with a counselor. If she told him right this moment she wanted them both to go home, he'd obey.

Haji is always like that. Always attentive to her whims, in a way that licks at her imperious streak, but also reminds her how far they still have to go to being true partners.

 _So stop self-obsessing,_  she thinks angrily.  _Just be happy for him._

She's made herself up with a jittery energy for the event. The twins have helped her: picking her jewelry, styling her hair, applying her make-up. Kai, upon glimpsing her outfit, has dubbed her  _Alice in Pepto-Bismol Land._

But Saya likes the gown. The embroidered bodice, low and fitted, gives way to a skirt that is all festive flounces and flowering fullness owing to the plethora of petticoats. The material stirs around her legs as she walks, as cool as Haji's skin. The twins have put her hair in corkscrew curls, tied back at the crown of her head with ornate pins. Modest make-up: just a dusting of sparkly pink lipstick.

Haji hasn't seen her yet. He'd left the villa three hours earlier, to meet the ensemble and get last-minute details sorted out with security. Still, she hopes he'll like how she looks. She wants to appear vibrant, happy. She's spent too much time moping lately. It's got to be taking a toll on Haji—even if he never shows it.

At her shoulder, Kai remarks, "Finally, he gets to show off to you."

Saya blinks. "What?"

Irritably, he tugs a finger at his suit collar. Black tie events are still his least favorite type. "Haji. He's never been this revved up about concerts before. Even the one he gave at the goddamn  _Met_ , way back 2026. I think he's just happy you're here."

She hadn't considered it from this angle. A pupil preening for their old teacher.

"Hai tai!"

She turns. Yumi and Yuri approach, tailed by their Chevaliers, and Deidra.

As always the twins are dressed as polar opposites. Yumi is in a bias-cut green silk that reminds Saya of a mermaid, her hair teased up into an impudently messy twist. In contrast, Yuri is a delicate vision in a pale blue sheath dress, an opalescent sheen to the fabric. String pearls dangle down her neck like chips of ice, parallel to her glossy straight hair.

Their Chevaliers, both in slim-cut suits similar to Kai's, seem hot and uncomfortable; V already has a mustard stain on his shirt, and Sachi has taken his jacket off and slung it over one shoulder. Deidra, behind them, looks both chic and practical in a burgundy pantsuit with black silk lapels. There is a daub of shimmering lipstick in the same shade on her mouth.

"Plenty of mosquitos here," she says, referring to the paparazzi. "Keep your guard up, Otonashi. Those fuckos try for upskirt shots. I'd rather not bodyslam anyone and ruin my suit."

Saya winces, "They'd do that?"

"They try anything to get a rise out of the ensemble," Yumi snorts. "It's why Haji stopped taking us on tours. One time, in New York, a reporter made some nasty remark while we were leaving the hotel. I don't remember if it was to me or Yuri, but..."

"Haji punched him," Yuri sighs. "And broke his nose."

"Oh yeah. I remember  _that_  legal rigmarole," Kai grumbles. "It's why he prefers staying in Okinawa. No reporters except when there's a high-profile scandal."

"Or an event like this," Dee says.

Saya frowns. This is a nasty underbelly of fame Haji hasn't mentioned. But he talks so rarely about the  _Philharmonic's_  heyday. Maybe he doesn't want to upset her with the negatives. Or maybe he doesn't want it to seem like the effort it obviously is.

 _Sprezzatura_ —isn't that what Joel used to call it? A nonchalance meant to disguise one's true thoughts behind the mask of effortless grace.

_He's like that in other parts of his life too._

She hasn't considered that before. She'd been so swept up in the war. No thoughts beyond:  _Defeat Diva._  No thoughts, certainly, of Haji, beyond his pragmatic utility.

But now, the balance is changing. In odd moments, Saya finds herself trying to pin down the elements that make Haji  _Haji_.

She's known him since he was a boy. Yet even now, his subtle personality reveals itself in ways so minute they're almost imperceptible.  Sometimes Saya thinks there is a vault in him, locking him from inside out, making an enigma of the true contours of his mind. Her oldest friend, the same face she's seen for decades over coffee, over war strategies, during train journeys, between firefights…Yet a part of him remains hidden, below the surface, beyond the radar.

A trick of survival? A disguise—even from her?

_You're being silly._

_You know him. All the important pieces of him._

His cello-playing. His faultless aim. His favorite symphonies. The laxness of his posture when his mind goes on standby. The steadiness of it when his interest is sparked. His loyalty. His patience. The silky length of his body. His scars, fine as Chantilly. The way he growls when she bites his neck, and the rest of him. The way his kisses taste of something sugar-heady or chillingy astringent depending on his lip salve. The smooth baritone of his singing voice, which comes out only when he is in the shower.  His wry sense of humor, which only she is privy to. His protectiveness, which shows in his uncanny attunement to everything around him.

His love, which is the substructure that braids all the other elements together into the shape of  _Haji_.

Yet there is so much more of him to unpack.

Maybe—here's a thought—he's waiting to follow her lead? Waiting for her to put down roots somewhere, so that he can do the same. Maybe, one-fifty years from now, they will feel safe enough to leave bits of themselves everywhere, without feeling under threat from all angles.

_One-fifty years from now..._

Saya marvels at the trend of her thoughts. 

Behind her, the twins gasp as one. "It's started!"

The rig lights at the stage are dimming. The massive LED screens in the background flare to life. Saya is aware of an almost arboreal silence settling over the gardens. 

At the shores of the shell-pale stage, the  _New Viennese Philharmonic_  float in like sea monkeys. There are thirty-five of them in all. Of the original ensemble, twenty, including Haji, still remain.

Saya finds her Chevalier in the first row. Like many of the ensemble, he's accessorized with a blood-red diego—Okinawa's national flower—pinned to his lapel. His black suit is a sharp-cut Fresco; beneath is a white shirt, silk and matte. His hair curls in tufts barely a degree more artful than when she tugs fistfuls of it in bed. They are styled to hide his scars; while he isn't self-conscious of them, he seldom cares to flaunt them in public.

Haji, with rarity, doesn't see her. He is busy tuning his cello with a mathematical precision. Eight of the twelve compositions feature his solos. Now, as then, he is one of the MVPs in the ensemble.

The second, a prodigy in her own right, is their soprano—a raven-haired beauty whom Saya vaguely recognizes from magazine covers and Youtube ads. Her voice has been lauded as this century's Maria Callas: she sings with the smoothness of a fife.

Heartsick, Saya thinks of another voice. A high, pure melody drifting from the Zoo's tower—one she'd first found serene, then terrifying. It still creeps into her dreams now and again.

But lately it is different. The most comforting song she knows.

She glances at Sayumi and Sayuri. Both girls' faces are uplifted to the stage. They look strikingly like Diva in that moment. But also like Riku: eyes wide and lips parted, childlike in their joy.

Gently, Saya twines her arms through both of theirs. She feels closer to Diva—to the stolen possibility of her—when the twins are beside her.

Their group moves with the flow of the crowd toward the tables. Saya and her party have front seats. Not the vantage Saya usually favors: she likes an unimpeded view of the territory, the entrances and exits. But this event, exclusive and deluxe, offers the kind of camera surveillance that tends to inhibit trouble.

Usually.

At the stage, the composer takes the podium. The music begins: a soaring rendition of Vivaldi's  _Four Seasons._ The sounds the ensemble make, amplified by the subtle acoustics of the stage, achieve a shimmering complexity that reminds Saya of a colorful rose blossoming in the darkness of space, each petal a different hue. And, laboring at their violins, harps, flutes and oboes, the  _Philharmonic's_  players are crofters, transforming the gardens into Elysian Fields.

"Damn," Kai mutters. "I forgot how good these guys are."

Good, Saya thinks, is an understatement.

She is transfixed by the luminous clarity of the sounds, by the dazzling close-ups and transitions on the screens. The  _Philharmonic_  seem less like a collection of people than oiled parts of an intricate machine. An illusion, she knows. According to Haji, rehearsals are an ordeal because there are members who will throw tantrums before even  _sitting_  next to each other.

But on stage, for the audience, they appear insulated from petty human emotions. All they exist to do is play, in perfect harmony.

 _Sprezzatura_ incarnate _._

When Haji's solo begins, Saya breaks into goosebumps. Under the blazing lights, he is—as she recalls one article describing— _Almost bewitchingly brilliant_.

He plays the solo for the  _Dvo_ _ř_ _á_ _k Concerto op. 104._  Foregoing the romantic frippery of the allegro, he plunges straight into the highwaters of the B and E major, lengthening them into a rapturous rise and fall, and then stirring up a stormy tempest in grandioso. His cello gleams with a rich luster, bow flashing. In the spotlights, across the screens, his hair is a baroque frame within which the picture of his face is redefined into the classic, brooding beauty indistinguishable from the music itself.

Then his blue gaze flicks upward, a smile flitting across his lips. A smile that Saya hopes is for her... but if charisma was shaped into arrowheads, half the women in the audience would drop dead in a swoon.

Later, with Victoire, he plays  _Bachianas Brasileiras No. 5_  by Heitor Villa Lobos. They harmonize gorgeously: Victoire's voice fluting to dizzying heights like a spire of light, chased by the abyssally dark sweetness of Haji's cello, before everything blurs together and explodes into glittery fragments of crescendo.

When the performance ends, Saya cries " _Bravo_!" along with everyone else. Standing among the crowd, she's almost forgotten her own disconsolations. She's even forgotten Haji, although she stares raptly as he rises to take a bow. His presence is incidental, just one piece in a marvelous architecture of music that rivals the Château de Versailles itself.

"Bravo!" she calls again, and the word is overlapped by a man standing beside her.

Blinking in surprise— _how did he get so close?_ —she finds him smiling, not at her but at the stage.

He is tall. Nearly as tall as Haji, and as pale. Beard stubble glitters coppery red along his strong cheekbones, and his hair is the same shade, falling in a smoothly disheveled tumble around his face. His sharp-hewn, almost Nordic features remind Saya of the Viking romances she used to read at the Zoo. As does the body, concealed elegantly in a black tux, yet solid as a mountain range.

Most unusual are his eyes. In the multicolored LEDs, they glow two different wavelengths. One red like infrared beams, the other blue like ultraviolet radiance.

They are the most entrancing eyes Saya has seen.

"Bravo!" he says, clearly moved.

And, catching her gaze, he smiles.

Saya feels a frisson of something. Familiarity? She smiles back, uncertainly. Yet it seems like she is smiling at an old friend. Someone who understands everything there is to know about her, and is as intimate with her as...

"Divine, yes?" the man says in English. His voice, though masculine, is smooth and songlike. He carries a trace of accent that she can't place.

"Yes," she says. "It's my first time hearing them—"  _If not Haji_ "—in person."

"Mine as well." He sighs. "Not the finest stage. But ... does it matter when the talent is the finest of all?"

"That's true."

"Are you a friend of Haji's?"

"Wh-what?"

He smiles again. His mouth is a curious shade of pink. Full and plush and pretty, yet there something familiar about it too.

It is just like Diva's.

Disorientation knits itself inside her. It isn't the first time her mind has cobbled together Diva's features with those of a stranger's. She still spots her sister in crowds now and again: a girl on the streets with dark hair so glossy it is like a mirror, an overflowing laugh, a pale curve of arm or leg. Except it is never Diva.

Never like this.

"I-I'm not sure what you mean," she stammers.

The man's smile widens. "I spotted you with him earlier this week. At a boutique. I was running errands nearby."

"Oh." She isn't sure what to say to that. The man's gaze is a rueful acknowledgement that even if Naha is a big city, the world remains so very small. Clearing her throat, she says, "Do you—want his autograph?"

Chagrined, he shakes his head. "I-I would not dare! I've always believed... that is not the point of these events."

"Then what is?"

His grin is all toothy white irreverence. "Making 'joyful noise'. Is that not the phrase? The world is so full of ugliness. But it is good to remember that human beings can also come together and create beauty."

Saya finds herself smiling back. "That's a very philosophical attitude."

The man's eyes shade under a fringe of pale lashes. They remind Saya strangely of a spider's web. Stranger still is her impulse to trace a fingertip along the translucent spikes...

His voice calls her back to the moment: "You are quite cynical for one so young."

"I'm older than I look," she blurts, then wants to bite her tongue.

But the man doesn't follow up with the nosy  _So how old are you?_ He chuckles, an easy diffusion of the awkwardness. "Yes. I thought you might be."

The familiarity of his tone should be worrisome. He gives off an energy that is scintillating, volatile, wicked. Or maybe it's those mismatched eyes that make it so? The dark one seems alive and on fire, the blue one appearing to float in its orb, not quite moored, like a circlet of ice at sea.

"Wh-what do you mean?" she stammers.

"Something about your expression. It glazed over each time the ensemble played a new piece. But Orff, Dvořák, Chopin... your entire face came alive. Contemporary frivolity seems not for you."

He smiles again, and Saya feels a flustered blush creep in. Why does she have butterflies in her stomach? (Or is it the flutter of adrenalized acid?)

She draws herself up, arching a brow with as much spirit as she can muster. "Did you spend the entire performance studying my face? Or the stage?"

He mirrors the brow-quirk, a quiet  _Touché_. "When distracted between two intriguing things, I have learnt to... to..." He pauses, searching for the word, "Multiplication-task?"

"Multi-task."

"Hm?"

"Multi-task. Not multiplication-task. I don't think the latter is a real skill."

"Spoken like a true hater of mathematics!" Then he chuckles, softening the remark. "Nor am I, truth be told. I prefer the languages. The more obscure, the better."

"Oh? Are you a linguist?"

"A stunted dream, sadly." A droll moue—half-farce, half-tragedy. "I am an internist by trade. Though I dreamt of being a polymath as a boy."

"Polymath?"

"Not a mathematician." He doesn't elaborate, but there is a creeping amusement in his eyes. As if they are playing a game. "Perhaps I have stumbled upon another. Tell me. Can you translate this? If-yay ou-yay standunder-yay, ay-say 'standunder-yay'. If-yay ou-yay on't-day standunder-yay, ay-say 'on't-day standunder-yay'. Ut-bay if-yay ou-yay standunder-yay and-yay ay-say 'on't-day standunder-yay', how oday iyay understandyay atthay ouyay understandyay Understandyay?"

It takes Saya only a moment to rearrange the jumble of words. Tongue twisters were an old favorite of hers at the Zoo. And Hog Latin is child's play to a girl weaned on French  _Louchébem_ —the best way for her and Haji to pass messages about future mischief under Joel's watch.

"If you understand, say 'understand'," she answers. "If you don't understand, say 'don't understand'. But if you understand and say 'don't understand', how do I understand that you understand? Understand."

He claps his hands together with a satirical solemnity. "Onderfulway . Iyay aketay ymay athay offyay otay ouyay." Clowning aside, the admiration is sincere. "That took you barely eight seconds. You have a marvelous command of the English language."

English is hardly the only language she is fluent in. More like the seventh. But she isn't going to tell a stranger that.

"So do you," she says, half reflex kindness, half sincerity. "The only words I hear from Americans lately seem to be 'Awesome' and 'So, like, basically.'"

The man throws his head back and laughs despite himself. The sound is like the audience's applause—a thunder-rumble of exuberant joy. "I will assume you are not American." 

"Do I sound like it?"

"No." He tilts his head, a sharp-eyed scrutiny. "You sound like you are from nowhere at all. Or everywhere at once. It is curious."

The intensity of his gaze unsettles her. She fumbles for a reply. "I've… spent time overseas. You learn to blend in."

"Yes. The great talent of travelers." A beat. "Or troublemakers."

"Pardon?"

"People so careful about blending in are usually avoiding trouble. Or stirring it up." His eyes twinkle as if in a private joke. "Which are you, I wonder?"

"Both." It comes salted with humor, but thinly. He is getting too personal, too fast. Worse, she is permitting it. "Anyway. Sometimes trouble just finds you."

"So it does. Especially in times so troublesome to begin with." His humor fades. "Luckily, we have our consolations."

"Such as?"

"Food. Music. Nature." Softer, "Family."

She is struck by his brooding stare, as if he is trying to find his way safely through a trap opened between them: a pitfall of shared grief. Which makes no sense.

At the stage, the  _Philharmonic_  soak in the adulation of the crowd. The spectral stage lights lend a dreamy definition to the players and their instruments. And from that light, the trick of Haji's distant shape is celestial, almost intangible.

Someone who isn't from her world at all.

Her new acquaintance follows her gaze. "Brave."

"Hm?"

"Brave of him. To seem so at ease on the stage. Even with all those eyes on him." In wry wistfulness: "It brings to mind an old Italian word. I think they call it—"

"Sprezzatura?" It comes from her mouth with no anticipation.

"Yes! That's the one!" His pleased little smile is almost boyish. "The gift of making the impossible appear easy. A talent of courtiers in the old days. Except it was not only the Italians who favored the quality. The Great Bragi himself extolled the virtues of masking craft as spontaneity."

"Great Bragi?"

"My patron saint." He winks. "He was a bard in the Norse pantheon. The Giver of Inspiration and the Maker of Music. Not a warrior, but a peacekeeper. He wandered the Nine Worlds, instilling in his audience the ideals of cooperation."

Saya tips him a faint smile. "A philosopher,  _and_  a historian? Is that what a polymath is?"

"I-I never said I was a polymath!" Charming abashment shows on his face. "I simply enjoy the  _Philharmonic's_  oeuvre. In fact, it was Haji's solo—the  _Fantaisie Impromptu_ —that first drew me to classical music."

"I'm starting to think you want Haji's autograph after all."

"Far from it." He ducks his head, coppery hair swinging forward to shield his face. His pale cheekbones are mottled pink. Not as smooth an operator as he'd first come off, clearly. "The best way to honor Bragi is to not to pester, but to support those in the performing arts. That is the purpose of this event. Am I not correct?"

Against her will, Saya's smile deepens. Something about this man pulls her senses oddly off-kilter. Yet he has a timely way, whenever she suspects his machinations are less-than-pure, of tilting his head a degree to the right, so the gloss in his mismatched eyes softens, and the angles of his face rearrange themselves into a quirky moue of playfulness.

Briefly, she makes note of his hands. Unusually large, the knuckles ridged with a tracery of scars. A fighter's hands.

A superstitious chill sluices through her. She forces it down.

"Are you, um, a longtime resident?" she asks.

"A new arrival. I work at the Naval Hospital. Yourself?"

"I—"  _Have no idea what I do anymore._ "I'm visiting family."

That, bittersweetly, is true.

He nods. "That would be the group there, yes? With the twin girls." He hooks a thumb at Sayumi and Sayuri. They are whooping loudly, caught up in the moment.

"Ye-es."

Why does she feel unsettled when he looks at the girls? As if she needs to protect them?

Then his mismatched eyes return to hers, and the strange feeling intensifies. "Lovely," he murmurs. "They resemble you. Your sisters?"

"No." Calling them her  _nieces_  is a stretch: the three of them appear the same age. What polite fiction would go over easier? "Cousins. First cousins."

"Have you any siblings of your own?"

"No." For a moment, the honeycomb cells of her brain dissolve, memories of Diva pouring in a sticky spill. She forces them down. "Only child." Then, in a polite deflection, "I don't think I caught your name?"

"Ah! Pardon my manners." He holds out a hand. "I am Tórir."

"Saya."

She is surprised by the way his palm envelops hers. It is cool like Haji's. Yet something about it sends a foreboding flicker through her.

Their eyes meet, and for a fraction of a second, Saya feels as if his consciousness is surging up to meet hers, a backwash as intensely black as ink. Her mind blurs with his, a porthole swinging open both ways, her memories swallowed by his own...

_...An island at the icy zenith of the sea. Flakes of white snow and grass of such enchanted green that the rims of her eyes burn. The clouds shift over the sun; castles of white and black are dappled in shadow, monoliths like chess pieces piled together. Below, villages glow, heat radiating off them. Roomfuls of people laughing and drinking and singing. And screaming, screaming, screaming as the armies come, men on foot, men on horseback, men with wings, an eclipse of darkness fallen upon the land. Fathers cower, mothers sob, rows of young boys are lined up like toy soldiers. Some are chosen, tearful and trembling, dragged by ropes like livestock, their parents wailing and wild and reaching for one last touch. Other boys are slaughtered under swords, their broken bodies sprawled in the snow as blood falls red…_

_…Red as the eyes of the woman on a throne of oakwood etched with golden curlicues, her beauty that of animal cruelty, her silk gown a river of brilliant blue. Blue as the eyes of the woman twirling under the gray skies, the swish of her white skirts an arctic circle, a song rising from her throat until the airwaves resonate with her power. And then the same woman flung to a bed of dirty straw, chains at her wrists, her blue eyes reflecting shock and then nothing as six shadowy men surround her and someone's boot slams into her ribcage. And the woman with red eyes spinning to decapitate a swordsman, ducking to evade a spear, leaping to impale a soldier, her body a comet tearing through the battlefield and her face streaked with blood and her mouth open in a scream that becomes a throbbing red cyst in Saya's skull..._

_And slicing through the vision, the black snake. Its hiss fills her ears._

_Saya._

Her fingers break away from Tórir's. Her consciousness floods back with a staticky abruptness.

Inhaling, Saya steadies herself. Ahead, Kai, the twins, even Dee are still enrapt on the stage. No one notices her lapse.

But Tórir is watching her strangely. "Are you all right?"

"Ye-es." She swallows. "Just a little zone."

"It might be all the flashing lights. They are quite overwhelming. Would you care to sit down?"

"No. It's—it's fine."

She takes a step back. Her knees wobble, and she nearly falls. Reflexively, Tórir grabs her elbow. No foreboding flash this time. His fingers curling across her skin are comforting. A caress.

"Miss Saya," he says. "I hope you have not been... what do the Americans call it? Hitting the sauce."

"Sauce?"

"You know. Soaked. Sozzled. Stewed.  _Schnockered_."

Saya can't help it. She laughs—a wheezy, involuntary laugh, a release of the awful tension inside her.

"No," she says. "No sauce."

"Perhaps you should have some," he says, adopting a physicianly tone. "Actual sauce. With food. You may have low BP." He glances around. "They are serving  _rafute_ at the stalls. Perhaps I could..."

"Mr. Tórir," she says, caught between gratitude and exasperation. What is he, a Chevalier? "I'm okay."

"You will not fall?"

"Not hard enough to break anything."

She gives him a meaning nod.  _You can let go now._

He obeys, a smooth retreat of his body that makes hers retreat too, not like strangers forced away from unwelcome intimacy but like two old lovers dancing a gavotte. The air is buzzing with voices. Circles of light pulse in disorienting bursts on the stage.

Yet, staring into Tórir's blue-brown eyes, Saya is strangely, deathly calm.

Like an executioner readying their axe. Or a fallen monarch kneeling beneath it.

"Are you sure you are all right?" he asks.

She nods. There is an impulse, utterly bewildering, to place her forefinger to his lips and quieten him.

_...As she has done many lifetimes before. Under the blue curve of the sky and in the cool darkness of the bedchamber. In affection, in anger. She has spoken of things both profound and paltry with him, has clashed with him in humor, in heat and finally in hatred, a mother seeking to destroy her corrupted child before he corrupted the entire world in turn..._

The feeling passes, leaving Saya unsettled. Staring into the mismatched eyes of a man who is an absolute stranger—yet not.

"Saya."

She whirls.

Haji is there. From being an untouchable titan on the stage, he is all at once a gentle guardian right at her side. Their eyes meet. It is like a spell being broken: he fills her entire field of vision, and some dark thing inside her dissipates.

"Haji!"

"Are you all right?"

"I-I'm fine. How did you get here so fast?"

He hesitates. "It felt as if you were in distress."

"Not in distress."  _Not exactly._  "I was just speaking with—"

She turns to introduce Tórir. But the space is empty.

Confusion laps at Saya. She glances around. But the man has melted into the crowd.

_That's weird._

She barely gets a word in before the cameramen in the periphery spot Haji. Like a typhoon, they swoop in, thundering exclamations and raining camera-flashes.

Much to her family's dismay.

"Haji, what the  _hell_?" Kai glowers at the flashbulbs. "You can't just fly in like that!"

"No one noticed," Haji says.

"The departure:  _no_ ," Dee gripes. "The arrival:  _yeah_."

Behind him, the twins cringe away from the cameras: Yuri under Sachi's jacket, Yumi behind V's massive shoulders. Spreading her arms out authoritatively, Dee shoulders between Saya and the photographers.

"No pictures, folks! Let the guy talk to his family!"

_"Haji, can you confirm the rumors that the NVP are planning a new tour?"_

_"Haji-san! Koko de mite kudasai!"_

_"Est-ce que vous composez un nouveau record?"_

_"Oi, Haji! Kono josei wa g_ _ā_ _rufurendo desu ka?"_

Dazed, Saya stumbles. Haji circles her in protectively.

"Forgive me, Saya," he whispers.

"Wh-what?"

"You will be in a few tabloid rags tomorrow."

Bit by bit, Dee steers the photographers away. Security arrives to take care of the rest. Saya's mind still goes snap-crackle-pop to afterimages of the cameras. But she welcomes it.

 _Anything_  is better than the disturbing vision earlier.

_God, what's wrong with me?_

Is this what it feels like to go insane? Or has madness—true, bone-deep lunacy—settled inside her the moment she'd killed Diva? Certainly, the guilt dogging her afterward feels like insanity itself, the cracks spreading outward so slowly she can almost forget they're there. Maybe that's how craziness takes hold: chunks of yourself breaking off not with a sense of menace but inevitability.

Saya closes her eyes. There is a temptation to glance around for Tórir. She resists. Tells herself that the strangeness of the encounter—like the vision itself—is just her imagination, and not a catastrophe which eludes understanding.

Until it is too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai tai: How the gals say 'Hello' in Okinawa. The male equivalent is 'Hai sai'
> 
> Next few chapters deal with Saya's ambivalence over Haji's fame - and her ambivalence with her new life in general. Expect Tórir to be slinking around in the sidelines, causing more trouble...
> 
> Hope y'all are liking the tale so far! If the chapter fell flat - or if you wish there's certain elements I'd explored, feel free to let me know! Feedback is yum! c:


	16. Sprezzatura (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! :)
> 
> Continuing with the Unnecessarily Long Concert Arc! Saya reaches an unpleasant epiphany, Kai's love life is Complicated™, and Tórir stumbles upon something interesting...
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy! There's two chapters left for Act I, after which I'll take an itsy bitsy breather before forging ahead with Act II! Thank you so much for sticking with this tale so far, and for all the delicious feedback and gifts on tumblr! I can't tell you how happy it makes me - and how much it revs me up to churn out the next installment! With patience and perseverence we will get through this 40+ chapter monstrosity! (Hopefully...)
> 
> Review pretty please! :)

 

Concerts, Saya learns, do not finish with the unfurling of stage-curtains and the performers retiring back to their hotels to sleep the sleep of the just.

As with the complexities of assembling any giant machine of sublime function, equal time takes to disassemble it. Classical music is a world of guidelines. From the axioms during the performance itself (never glancing around if someone messes up a note, never shuffling pages during someone's solo, signaling praise only with a positioning of feet), to the rituals at the end, (knowing when to stand in tribute to the conductor and when not to, discerning when the applause dies down and the ensemble can exit), its codes are as challenging to crack as the Victorian  _Language of the Fan._

Speaking of  _fans_... there is a long, long, long line of them.

With the concert finished, the ensemble retired to the dressing rooms for a powder. Now they take their seats at a news-conference table at the marquee, Haji among them. Reporters and fans posit questions; the ensemble or their spokesperson answer.

Saya watches from the sidelines, jealousy and outrage blurring together, as her Chevalier fields interrogations that strike her as nearly obscene in their nosiness.  _Are you dating anyone?—Any raunchy tour stories to share?—Is it Botox that keeps you looking so young?—If you could kiss any of these five celebrities..._

Haji never grows irritable. He projects, despite his aloofness, a quiet irony, as if he and the speaker are mutual acquaintances sharing a joke. Sometimes, their high-spirited violinist, with a toss of his floppy-fringed hair, cuts in with a wisecrack. Other times Victoire, their mezzo soprano, takes over, tartly charming with her witchy green eyes.

They have a gimmick, Saya realizes. One no different from their choreography on-stage. It isn't artificial: when the players banter back and forth, they speak affectionately, with anecdotes and nicknames. Victoire even has one for Haji.  _Sale petit Cagot._

Its very matter-of-factness is a mark of intimacy—and it bothers Saya.

It bothers her more that Victoire can't seem to keep her flirty hands off Haji. They glide to him often: his shoulder, his arm, once even the back of his neck as she spouts off a little pop aria for a fan, the pitch rising dramatically into high camp without once losing its operatic flair.

Later, the same fan asks for a picture of them together. They oblige: Victoire's arms around his waist, clinging tight, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. Haji's own hand is placed with scrupulous correctness between her shoulderblades, yet so familiar for it. Like he touches her there often.

Saya's gut-shock of jealousy becomes wrath.

 _I will kill her_.

Immediately she feels a spasm of shame.

God, is this how indelibly the madness has sunk in? To contemplate murdering a harmless woman? She is by nature selfish: Haji's attention, always turned toward her, is such a fixture in her life that she's begun to feel entitled to it. But if another woman—surely just a friend?—monopolizes him for a minute, what's the harm?

Hasn't Haji placed his heart and body and very life on the line to prove he is  _hers_?

Then she hears Diva's voice in her ear,  _Yours, for now._

_But what about once you're gone?_

She flinches.

Things were different in the war. She could envisage him fighting the good fight, his mind on the mission. But what about now? She is absorbing, in skin-crawling stages, that he isn't simply  _Haji_  anymore. Fortune and fame hang distastefully on some people: ugly wardrobes, zany fads, lapses in common sense. Haji wears his with the same cool blandness as one of his suits. All stripes of well-connected people share their orbits with him now. Strange to imagine. Haji—her overgrown playmate, the street urchin, the wandering minstrel: a success.

Will it drive a wedge between them? Has it already done so? All the choices are his for the making now. Money, travel, sex. After her Long Sleep, what's to stop him from going astray? Her Chevalier is nowhere near as cold as he lets on—emotionally, sexually. His intensity is like a ripcurl beneath a midnight sea. Calm on the surface, but if you get close it will drag you down beyond resurfacing.

Saya doesn't want to resurface. It is the darkest spaces within the water that have always enthralled her.

 _But what if he gets bored of_ me _?_

_What if he meets someone better once I'm gone?_

_What if—_

Saya shuts her eyes. She is getting a blinding headache.

"You okay?"

Kai plunks into the seat beside her.

She jerks. "Y-Yeah."

"You sure? You look like total crap."

"…wow. Thanks."

"No. I mean it." He meets her eyes squarely. "What's up?"

"N-Nothing." She tucks a dangling curl of hair behind her ear. "I'm just ready to go home."

"Before dinner?" Kai sounds appalled. "Are you even  _Saya_?"

"Mm."

Her usual enthusiasm for sparring has deserted her; she can only manage a listless shrug. Kai notices, and frowns.

"Look. Try one dish.  _Aiai_  is catering the food. Their  _shabu shabu_  isn't as great as Dad's. But it's not bad."

"Really?" Her flagging spirits—and stomach—perk up a little. "With  _shiitake_  mushrooms?"

"And  _nori_."

"Well. Maybe I'll try a  _little_..."

He relaxes visibly, his universe restored to its proper function. "There ya go. No one can live on jealousy alone."

"Wh-what?"

He shrugs. "Just sayin.' If looks could kill, Victoire would be  _shabu shabu_  herself."

Chagrined, she drops her gaze. "Is it that obvious?"

"Hey. If it's obvious to  _me_ , then Haji's probably sweating in his suit."

"He doesn't look like it."

"He never looks much like anything." Kai makes a gesture with his hand to mimic a broken fan or curly pasta. "Those impalings in the war probably did it. Knocked his facial-muscles offline."

"Ha ha."

He smiles, wryly sincere. "Not his brain, though. I promise he and Victoire are just old friends."

"How do you know?"

"Back in 2027, she and her family sometimes visited Okinawa. They'd stop by for lunch at Omoro. She was just a kid then. Barely nineteen."

"She isn't anymore."

His smile fades. "She's not. But Haji's the same old Haji."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning if you so much as stub your toe right now, he'll come crawling out of the woodwork."

_Will he?_

She is so accustomed to thinking of her Chevalier in absolutes: Haji  _always_  defends her, Haji  _never_  deserts her.

But what is to say those absolutes can't evaporate as swiftly as anything else? Nothing lasts forever. Even as hers and Haji's bodies stay uncannily youthful, time washing over both of them without erosion, they aren't immune to changes on the inside.

Everything about her Chevalier evokes home, safety, sanctuary. Yet there are times when Saya feels her own place with him slipping precariously, the hourglass' inevitable shift from past to present to future.

But what future is there? Barely three years together: an illusion of belonging as she tries to resume her so-called life. She does nothing terribly important these days, yet time flashes by anyway, days melting into weeks. Into years. Then  _poof_. She'll be gone again.

How can that be enough to sustain a relationship?

The idea chews relentlessly at her nerves, even when dinner is served. She eats on autopilot, the food like chalk in her mouth, her smile a flickery phantom as she chitchats with the twins, with Kai, with Dee and the boys. Their banter sweeps her through the evening, coasting its surface.

Afterwards, a string quartet (not the  _Philharmonic_ ) plays catchy contemporary beats. Under the marquee's glitter-ball and shimmery black lining, couples whirl. The twins promptly hoist their Chevaliers into the crush. But Saya is content to play wallflower.

Her mind is mottled with exhaustion; between the mystifying vision and her anxieties about Haji, she is verging on meltdown.

Kai and Dee, noticing her funk, try to distract her. But Dee's gaze travels now and then to the dancefloor. Saya feels a stab of pity. The young woman has been guarding her diligently during the concert, warding off opportunistic paparazzi. Surely she'd like to take a break?

"Miss Dee," she says. "Why don't you dance?"

"Huh?" Dee glances up from her drink—the same black-and-tan that Julia once favored. "No way. I'm all left feet."

"That doesn't matter once you're on the floor. No one pays attention."

Dee arches a brow. "Planning to teach me, Otonashi?"

"W-well, no. But maybe Kai could—"

"No thanks."

Kai's answer comes almost before she says his name. Is it her imagination, or does he seem ill-at-ease? Without meeting hers or Dee's eyes, he lurches out of his seat. "I'm gonna take a walk. Work off that big meal."

"Um—" Saya begins. Beside her, Dee's smile twists in place. "Your appetite always did exceed your willpower."

Kai winces but doesn't answer. Sketching a hasty salute, he exits the marquee.

Saya and Dee watch him go. The other woman is frowning. About what, Saya can't say. In the interior twilight, her blue eyes hold an unhappy gloss. Then she blinks, and it dissipates. Rising, she extends a hand to Saya.

"C'mon. Show me some fancy moves."

"Wha—?" Saya blinks. "I-I didn't think you were serious."

"Dead serious. I've read my Dumas and Balzac. I know you guys danced your way straight into the 20th Century. Stands to reason you'd remember a few steps."

Saya squirms. "Well..."

"It's better than working that thousand-yard stare, Otonashi. If something's bugging you, it's better to burn it off."

"...Um. Right."

Hesitantly, she takes Dee's hand. The other woman's grip is pleasantly strong. Saya fights down a blush.

_I've chopped down enemies twice my size and been stalked by a lunatic in an opera mask and been whisked off to Manhattan by a lovestruck Chevalier._

_Holding another woman's hand is tame by comparison._

Dee draws her into the dance-floor. The music is a fast spin-gig, violins sounding off in bright streamers. Saya lets Dee steer her around, then vice versa, both of them awkward at first, trying to get a feel of the beat, and each other.

Then the jammed gears of their bodies click into the right rhythm. A little chortle escapes Dee, and they are matching steps, gliding around each other in a sleek figure eight, linked together by their palms. Couples dodge out of the way as they cut a wide swathe across the floor, the smarting dark-red of Dee's suit like dried blood, Saya's own diaphanous gown a milky smear of it.

She can feel the glances of strangers on them—aghast, amused, envious. She ignores them. Dee's fingers are warm on hers, and the thick fringe of her hair tumbles across one eye. Saya watches as she pouts her lower-lip and blows a  _whoosh_  of breath upwards. Blond hair flutters off her forehead, luminous in the disco-lights, and Saya feels warmly punch-drunk. Not attraction,  _per se_ , but caught in the playful sensuality of the moment.

By the time the next song rolls in, they are exchanging laughs—Saya's shy, Dee's full of rare delight.

"Damn, girl! You're  _good_!"

"Muscle memory, I guess."

"May I cut in?"

Haji is at the edge of the dancefloor. The Philharmonic has concluded their press-conference. Its members have dispersed across the banquet hall. Saya can see Victoire flitting around the salad bar like a glitzy hummingbird.

Forcibly, she jerks her gaze away. "Wait your turn. The dance isn't over yet."

Haji crooks a brow. "A Game of Flats, then?"

"It suits me better than Patience."

Dee glances between them. "Should I, uhm, leave you guys alone?"

 _No. Yes_. Saya doesn't know. Her eyes meet Haji's. Predictably, her heart stutters, robbing the savor from her modicum of power over him. The only power she has left, fading day-by-day into the inevitable…

Then he says, "Please?"

As always, his sincerity strips away the imperious facade, leaving her trembling bare on her axis. She hates that he can have this effect on her. Yet his presence is like sanctuary, no matter where they go.

Dee lets go almost sheepishly, like she's stumbled into a big-league game with its players already chosen. Saya tries to catch her eye as the other woman slips past her, maybe to reconfirm for a heartbeat their brief connection. But Dee's eyes slide past her with a perturbed glint before she quits the dancefloor.

_She's as preoccupied as I am._

_But about what...?_

Then Haji's hand takes hers.

It is the softest shock, her whole body going from static to depth-charged. He draws her into the dancefloor. The air is dense and heated, yet his touch is deliciously cool on hers. The dancers in the glow sway back and forth, and the music is unrecognizable to Saya. Yet everything imparts a nostalgic aura of the Zoo, a ghostly layer of memories from their childhood.

Her feet don't collide with Haji's the way they did with Dee's. There is no stop-and-start as they learn each other's rhythms. His arm encircles her, her free hand clasps his shoulder, and then their bodies are moving in a graceful rise and fall across the polished floor.

In the half-dark, Haji's skin is luminous. His eyes are the same, and so soft. They skim across her with familiar slowness, before tactile replaces the visual caress. He smooths her hair, skims his thumb across the curve of her cheek. Sighing, Saya closes her eyes. It should feel strange, and awkward, and unreal. She hasn't danced with Haji in over a century, and never in circumstances like these.

Yet it doesn't matter. Their bodies remember one another: secrets shared without words, a connection both vital and unceasing.

 _Sprezzatura_.

With Haji, it isn't a studied art, but an effortless mode of being.

They go through five more songs, as smoothly as if they've practiced each step. The room's acoustics are distractingly loud, but she no longer hears them. Silence is Haji's natural state, and each time she falls into it with him, she is grounded in a semblance of peace. Her Chevalier is not immune either. By degrees, she watches his face change. Something melts away from it, a distance so indelible she hadn't noticed until it is gone. Armor—not against her but the cacophony of the gathering.

Now it vanishes, his features smoothing out. By the time the string quartet reels off its final number, they both are cinched together like in their childhood. Two halves of a whole—Haji's hand a cool comfort clasped in hers, his forehead resting against her own.

Like her, he has always found his solace in the tactile, the tangible.

"We should never have stopped," she whispers.

"Stopped?"

"Dancing. After we left the Zoo."

His eyes go pensively soft. "We were at war."

"I know. But sometimes I wish—"

Haji leans down to kiss her, soft, sweet, interruptive. She shivers and goes still.

"I prefer now to then," he says. "It makes what we have twice as valuable."

"What we have." Lip bit, she can't quite meet his eyes. "Does that include you too?"

"What? Saya—of course—"

She'd not meant to bring this up, and her stomach clenches with shame. Yet she can't stop the words from coming. "Y-You've just been so busy this whole night. I know it's not on purpose, but—"

"Ssh." He circles her in closer. "Forgive me. We need not do this again if you disliked it."

"But this is your  _life_. You can't just—"

"I will do whatever is necessary for your happiness." He nuzzles her hair. "Did you at least enjoy the performance?"

She hears the boyish hopefulness in his voice. It reminds her of when he'd do magic-tricks or handstands for her as a child, prompting  _Did you see it, Saya? Did you, did you?_

Wistfully, she smiles. "I couldn't look away."

"I meant the music."

She pinches his arm. "You  _know_  it was perfect, you vain thing. All the women were swooning. Half the men too."

"Were you?"

"I was... happy." She tucks her head under his chin. "Happy to be there, and watch you. I'd never have thought you'd look so at home onstage."

"The stage is my least favorite place."

"Then what's your favorite?"

He strokes his palm from her spine up to the curve of her nape. An instinctive soothing that is an answer itself.

Saya smiles. Then, more hesitantly, "Something… weird happened during the performance."

"Hm?"

"I was talking to this man." She says the words, and watches the minute concern in Haji's face. She hastens to reassure him, "Nothing icky. But I got the strangest feeling. As if—"

" _There_  you are!"

Victoire has made a reappearance. Up close, she is twice as attractive: tall as a Dian and filling out her tailored black gown with the same statuesque grace. Her hair is the same variant of Haji's, a darkly curling tumble that she manages to make look both sophisticated and sexy.

Grasping Haji's sleeve, she pulls him in. "A little bird told me a representative from Sony Records will be at the after-party. If it means what I think it means—"

"I heard," Haji says. "But nothing is confirmed yet."

"I'd say it's confirmation enough if—" She notices Saya at Haji's side, and laughs. Her Japanese is smooth as crème de cacao. "Pardon me,  _ma puce_! I just need to borrow him to talk business for a mo—"

"You can talk in front of me," Saya says. "I'm not a reporter."

"No,  _no_. Of course not. Too young for that. But we wouldn't want to bore you, sweet child—"

"I'm not a child, either."

"Huh?"

Haji steps in, less a maker of introductions than a peacekeeper. "Victoire. This is Saya. Saya—"

"Victoire. I know." She smiles with as much decorum as she can muster. "How do you do?"

"Oh, very  _well_!"

Victoire shakes her hand. But her eyes have taken on a shrewd appraisal that makes Saya feel like a flowery pink dishrag.

"So  _you're_  Saya?" she says. "Haji's old mentor?"

Is that how he'd described her?  _Old mentor_? Her throat clots, but she says evenly. "Among other things."

" _Other_  things?" Victoire's eyes and mouth make shiny little 'O's. "I see, I  _see_. Is this why I've been seeing so little of you lately, Haji?"

Haji barely winces. "Saya is getting resettled into Okinawa. Her family live here. Kai and the girls."

"Is she staying at Omoro, then?"

"No. With me."

"So she's living with— _Haji_! When were you going to let  _me_  know?"

Is that the sort of thing a bandmate would ask? Or an ex-girlfriend? Saya has no idea, and there is a stab of jealousy between her second and third rib.

Perhaps she should have asked Haji to introduce her to his social circle earlier? But things have been so crazy after her Awakening. She is still trying to establish a rhythm in her life, while being painfully aware she's all but disrupted her family's own routines.

Then Haji's cool palm settles on her shoulder with a proprietary tenderness. "I hoped to introduce the two of you at the next event."

"So: tonight." Victoire tilts her head in a way that makes her glossy curls sweep across one eye. " _Well_. No wonder you've been in high spirits these few weeks. I figured you'd just found a barely-legal Okinawan girl like the rest of the men here."

"Saya is quite legal," Haji says, in the blandest of tones.

"She must be. Your old mentor and all." There is cynicism in Victoire's voice, not entirely downplayed. "Dare I ask the name of your plastic surgeon, Saya? He must be a good one. You look so  _young_."

"No surgeon," Saya says. "Just good genes."

" _Better_  than good, I'd say. The Okinawan diet living up to its hype."

"I guess so."

There is a beat in which the three of them glance at each other. The awkwardness of impending departure hangs in the air. Then, like a pretty pinwheel caught in the breeze, Victoire cycles to a different subject.

"Well. It was  _lovely_  to meet you, Saya. We must do lunch together soon."

"Later, maybe," Saya says, in a tone that runs parallel with _When Hell freezes over_.

"Next weekend," Victoire says, undeterred. "I am  _so_  curious to know how you two met. You don't seem Haji's type at all."

His  _type_? Saya has no idea how to take that. Her pulse skitters, and Haji's palm tightens on her shoulder. She senses his wariness, and wants to rage into his eyes— _What is she talking about, Haji?_

Carefully, her Chevalier breaks the exchange. "I will check our schedule."

"Do that. Maybe we can try that nice Indian restaurant again.  _Bollywood Jewel_ , I think it was called? You liked their  _tikka masala,_ right? I don't blame you—very  _lash_ _é-xamàsko_ _."_ Victoire chatters while digging for something in her chic little clutch. The word—  _lashé-xamàsko_ —isn't French. Saya has heard Haji use it in their childhood—a  _Bugurdži_ term for a savory food.

The tightening clench of her stomach makes her sick. There is no more natural route to the acquisition of a dying language, she knows, than sharing a bed. She's already made greater strides with learning her Chevalier's childhood tongue than she'd ever done during their little vocabulary games at the Zoo.

Before she can speak, Victoire tugs Haji's sleeve. Her backward glance at Saya is carelessly assured. "You don't mind if I borrow him, yes? We've a photoshoot soon, and I have a few questions to ask our make-up crew..."

"Um..."

"Saya?" Haji's eyes are on hers. Asking for permission.

Woodenly, she nods. "Whatever you like."

" _Thank_ you." Victoire pushes cheerfully past Saya, Haji in tow, her heels clicking on the tiles.

Saya watches them go. The pressure of the headache from earlier returns, doubling with the churning in her gut. Her mind runs in circles, thinking of Haji, Victoire, the conversation with Tórir, the bizarre vision, the snake that keeps hissing her name...

Hurriedly, she exits the marquee. Right then she hates everything about the place: its jangle of sounds, its blaze of lights. The sight of Haji and Victoire, both elegant as figurines on a gothic wedding cake, a star and starlet off to conquer the silver screen. For a moment she thinks it is envy that makes her eyes burn.

But it is just the shock of comprehending the dimensions of Haji's new life. His place in the world.

She misses her own, deadly and dead-end as it was.

_Except it's not the war you miss._

_It's Diva._

The tears come in a hot rush she cannot stifle. Snatching up fistfuls of her skirt, she takes off into the gardens.

* * *

_There she is._

Tórir watches the little Queen racing through the grass. Hair flying like the mane of a wild mare, cheeks streaked with tears, skirts all a-tumble. The air vibrates with the tiny messages of her distress, little bubbles in a glass of champagne, fizzing and making her more delicious to him.

Hidden among the trees, Tórir takes a deep breath of her, and holds it.

The temptation to follow her blooms lush and irresistible. To talk to her again, to count the curls of her eyelashes and the flecks of red in her brown eyes.

During their conversation, he'd expected only trite elicitation. He'd discovered treasure.

She was more like the Red Queen than he'd first envisioned, and yet nothing like her at all: direct and cutting one moment, sweet and shy the next. The  _life_  clinging to her body was irresistible, a shimmer like on the surface of a moonstone—and as fragile.

With the Red Queen, Tórir had held the essence of war in his cupped palms. Trapped it and kept it for himself, reducing the Queen to a berserker on the battlefield. His very own sleep-walking war-weapon. It's what he'd yearned for ever since he was a boy: mastery over the elements of Nature. Death itself turned into a puppet on his strings.

But  _life..._

That is a beauty he's never touched.

The air is still, swirling with the red-and-black shapes of cinnabar moths. As a boy, Tórir remembers reaching for these same creatures with curious hands. Other boys his age had snatched heedlessly, crushing the creatures to powder in one clumsy motion. But Tórir was always careful. He'd chased them one by one, trapping them with delicate precision whenever they alit on a stone or a tree. He'd kept them in a roughly-burnished glass jar by his window, wings battering across its surface, their reds and blacks the color of blood-blisters.

Then, day by the day, those colored faded. Crumpled and forlorn, the moths fluttered to the bottom of the jar. Soon, they barely twitched when he tapped his fingers on the glass.

Then one day, they stopped moving entirely.

_Sweet Saya._

_How long will you last, once I take you?_

Behind him, the trees rustle. He hears disjointed voices, a man's urgent hiss dominating them.

_"...telling you it wasn't a wild animal. Those guards at Yabuchi..."_

"Look, there's no way it was a Chiropteran. The three Queens in Okinawa are safe as houses. It couldn't be them, either..."

 _Chiropteran_.

Tórir's ears collect the sound. The word he'd found in the Red Shield boy's blood. What these humans—those privy to the secret knowledge—call Tórir's kind.

Intrigued, Tórir slinks through the treeline.

There, at clearing, a human man paces. An unimpressive specimen: thirty-five, give or take, but with an overweight teenager's awkward posture. Like most of the guests tonight, he is in evening wear, but he's taken his jacket off, and his shirt is patchy with perspiration. His flabby face is the same, the odd pimple or two glinting beneath a sheen of sweat; his head is topped by squiggly brown hair already thinning at the whorl.

Clutching at a cellphone, he entreats, "Look. We can try again. There's no reason to shut the lab just yet—"

" _No reason?! For all we know Red Shield's already been alerted. If they find us_ —"

"They  _won't_. Look. Red Shield believes there've been no Chiropterans on Okinawa in years. Our specimen was emphatically  _not_  a Chiropteran!"

_"Excuses! The D67 base was exactly the same! If Red Shield learns of it—"_

"They won't. They have us on file. Just a harmless research facility. Nothing to worry about."

_"Unless we're harboring threats to public safety! You still don't know what killed those guards—"_

"Because it was a wild animal. C'mon, Jordan. It  _had_  to be. We haven't heard a peep from it since. Nothing in the news. No unusual sightings—"

_"What about the mother and daughter in Uruma?!"_

"What? The gang attack? C'mon, Jordy. Chiropterans aren't known for porking their prey—"

 _"What if it wasn't one of_ your _subjects. What if—"_

"What if  _what_? It was a monster risen from the dead? Hibernating in the cave? You're being ridiculous. Those security guys were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's no reason to pull the plug on our research—"

_"There's too many risks, Carsten. Too much money sunk into this. It's gone pear-shaped—"_

"It hasn't. Jordan, I swear. I'm on the verge of a breakthrough. I just need a little more time—"

_"I've been hearing that for two years now. Sorry, Carsten. I've had enough. So have the trustees."_

"Jordan,  _please_ —"

_"No, Casten. It's done. Cobbling a miracle cure with leftovers from Cinq Flèches' data is risky. Experimenting on volatile subjects is plain suicidal. Your latest failure proves it. The board is fed up with seeing no results. They're not tossing in more good money after bad."_

"It won't go bad! I swear! I'll expedite the process! Within a year, I should—"

_"No can do, Carsten."_

"Wh-what're you saying?"

_"I've received a notice from the board. You're being cut loose."_

"Jordan, no—!"

_"Sorry, man. You're on your own."_

"Jordan—Jordan, hold up—!"

The crisp  _click_  of disconnection.

The human stares at his phone. A stifled noise trembles and dies in his throat. Not a curse, but the whine of a cornered animal. Tórir is amused by the reek of distress pouring off him—a syrupy foulness that combines adrenaline with plugged-up sweat.

Truly, the scope of human ridiculousness is infinite.

Except the man's bulk or his funny noises don't interest him. No, this man was talking about the island Tórir had arisen from. The cave that had kept him trapped for centuries. Yabuchi—with its itchy-dark caverns and its bitter reek of fermented rot. The place overrun with  _habu_  snakes that had been Tórir 's saviors, the thin gruel of their blood keeping him nourished.

The place where, lifetimes ago, his final showdown with the Red Queen had occurred.

This human doesn't know about any of that. But he knows about Red Shield. About Saya and her nieces. About Chiropterans.

_Can he be of use to me?_

Hard to credit that a creature the exact proportions of a larva can be of use to anyone. But Tórir's judgement—sounder than the whims of Wyrd—has rarely led him wrong. He has seen stranger days, and known stranger people. Beneath the unsightly flab, he suspects the human has a mind as sharp as any.

So he makes his decision, and smiles.

Smooth as shadow, he steps out into the clearing. The earthy bed of dead leaves crunches under his shoes.

"Good evening."

The human hears him, and whirls. Clumsily, all that fat blighting perfectly good meat. His eyes bulge in their sockets, mouth comically unhinged. "Je-Jesus!"

Tórir's smile widens. A fangy menace of a smile. In the darkness, his eyes glow phosphorescent blue.

"I could not help overhearing your conversation," he says. "I was hoping... you could share more."

* * *

Saya finds refuge beneath the lacework of cherry trees.

Speed had swept away her tears, but now her eyes feel hot as embers in their sockets. Panting, she slumps against a wrought-iron bench. It is quieter here: a few guests roaming down the garden's stone pathways, or leaning against the wooden balustrade of the viewing pavilions, the majestic torii arches soaring against the starred night.

Eyes closed, Saya inhales.

She is still crying, but in the softest possible way, less a spastic fit than a luxury of self-indulgence. The night's scents are a comfort, both fresh and loamy.

This is the familiar world she'd dreamed of coming back to. But she'd also thought she'd be coming home to familiar  _people_ , untouched by the erosions of time.

_If I don't have that, what else is left?_

Then she hears Kai's voice: "I thought you might be here."

Her heart leaps happily in her chest. Tears spring to her eyes, and she thinks, _Oh Kai. Please talk to me. Let it be like it was in the old days, when you always comforted me and everything was simpler..._

Then she hears Dee's reply: "I wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah?"

"Six weeks since I got back from Caracas. And not one dance? Nevermind a  _kiss_?"

A kiss?  _What_?

For a moment, Saya's mind fuses shut as bewilderment bleeds into her bones. Directly ahead of her, fairylights are strung between a pair of close-rooted trees. Two shapes are visible between their gaps: a somber vignette of Kai's crisp black suit juxtaposed with Dee's rich burgundy-colored one. They circle each other like duelists, speaking in measured whispers.

Kai says, uncomfortably, "You had Adam to worry about."

"He's okay now. They all are." Dee sighs. "It nixed our announcement though."

"There can't  _be_  an announcement, Dee. We've gone over that."

"That's such  _bullshit_ , Kai. After what happened in Rio, I thought we both agreed—"

"I've had time to... think since then. And there's no way this can end well—"

"Kai—"

"Deidra, please." Guilt is audible in his voice. "Just hear me out. I'm all wrong for you. All wrong, and too goddamn old."

"You're barely forty-eight. That's—"

"Old enough to know better. Old enough to—"

"Oh. My.  _God_." Dee makes an X with both arms. "My dad was  _thirty-nine_ when my mom met him. She was  _twenty-seven!_ "

"So, what? You've got a thing for older men because David and Julia had an age gap?" Kai lets off that particular laugh that is more like a raspy cough. "That's pretty Freudian, kiddo."

"Don't  _kiddo_  me! I'm just saying these things are perfectly normal."

"Normal for other people. Not us." Quietly, "You're David's daughter."

"Also old enough to know my own goddamfucking mind." She hesitates, then touches him arm in a gentle but attention-getting manner. "Kai, come on. What's changed? Is it Otonashi—?"

Kai shifts so her hand slips off. His voice flattens to a monotone.

"That was years ago. Let's not talk about it."

 _Talk about what?_  Saya thinks, an electric current running down her spine. Sweat breaks out on her hairline; her heart starts walloping in her chest.

Between the trees, Dee spreads her arms in the universal gesture of exasperation. "Look. I'm just trying to understand. Everyone knows you carried a big torch for her back in the day."

"Dee—"

"When I first met her, I didn't get the fuss. But there's definitely an… x-factor going on. So I can get—if not  _like_ —that you might feel some old sparkage there…"

"Dee. Don't be ridiculous."

She explodes, " _Well if it's not her, then what is it_?!"

"Keep your voice down, for Christ's sake!" Kai's own voice is hushed by the terrible secrecy of it all—but no less fierce. "You deserve a proper life. With a family, and a future, and all the good things someone like you deserves."

"You think I care about any of that?"

"You  _should_! You may be a Shield now. But where do you see yourself twenty years from now? Changing an old man's bedpans? Carting him around on a wheelchair?"

" _You_? On a wheelchair?" Her lip curls, a laugh spangling out. "Don't  _you_  be ridiculous, Kai."

"I'm serious, Dee. I'm all wrong for you. Too old, too fucked up, and if your Dad finds out—"

"What's there to find out? We haven't  _touched_  each other since Rio!"

Saya can sense the heat flaring across Kai's face. His voice is quiet. "I had no right to touch you at all."

"Nuh-uh. Don't make it sound like I was passive. I made the first move, remember? I made—pretty much all the moves." Her voice descends to a warm intimacy that makes Saya queasy with the wrongness of listening in. "And it was good. It was so sweet. I don't know when I was happier. I'd had my sights on you since I was twenty-five—"

"I hoped you'd grow out of it."

"I grew  _into_  it. And that crush—it grew into something else—"

"Deidra. Please."

"Kai, I'm just saying. I'm not some civilian who doesn't get where you're coming from. I  _do_. I've been on the frontline since I was eighteen. I'm a better fighter than our best troops combined. I can take care of myself. You don't have to protect me from anything—"

The line of Kai's shoulders softens, and he takes her face in his hands. "I don't have to drag you in deeper, either. Dee—for fuck's sake. You don't know what the war was like—"

"I  _would_  know, if you'd talk about it with me. That's all I want."

"Dee—"

"Kai, I know you think this is some stupid crush. Maybe it was, once. At twenty-five, I was infatuated with you. At twenty-seven, I was fascinated by you. I was everything except in love with you. But after Rio..."

Kai's hands drop away. "Don't."

"No. Listen to me." Her look is calm, even though the tension at her jaw hints at stoppered emotion. "Whatever you think is the issue, we'll work a way around it. My dad trusts you. He'll be angry, at first—but he'll accept that no one could be a better fit for me than you. We're both fighters. We're both afraid of nothing. We're way better together than we ever could be apart."

"You think that now..."

"Yeah, I  _do_!" The calmness evaporates; she jabs a finger at his chest. "I also think  _you_  know it too. You keep clinging to the war because it protects you from honesty with people you care about. People you're afraid to lose. Well, tough cookies, Kai. That stance is pretty transparent to me."

"The issues between us are real." Kai is trying to force her out now with sheer stubbornness: his face shut tight as a lid, shades dropped in the eyes, the 'Closed' sign telegraphing across his entire body.

But Dee is obviously stubborn too. "I  _know_  they're real. But I also believe something good is worth struggling for. Whatever normal life you think you're taking from me, I promise you it doesn't matter. Future, family, happiness—all that crap. I see it all when I look at  _you_. It's enough for me."

"Dee..."

She thumps him. "And it would be plenty for  _you_  too, if you'd stop acting like a worldclass head-ass!"

Kai exhales, but says nothing.

Dee barrels on, "And if you think one day I'm going to run away from the mission I've dedicated my life to, or wake up one sunshiny Saturday and decide I want a normie job with an hour-long commute and two-point-five kids, you're out of your mind. I'm part of your life, and part of the mission, and you're just gonna have to deal."

For just a moment, it is Mao's voice that echoes in Saya's ears. Mao had used to talk to Kai like that. But it hadn't worked out between them. Too much time apart, too many miles of distance, too many shrinking frames of reference. In the end, Mao was happier with Okamura.

And Kai...

He'd stayed single all this time. Why? Was it Saya's own fault? Had she given him some clue that it might have worked between them? Made him decide that trying for the affections of a Chiropteran Queen, his adopted sister, was riskable, possible—and not predestined for disaster?

 _It isn't possible,_  she thinks.  _It never was._

_I knew that. He knew that._

_It was enough that we were family._

So why does her heart feel half-crushed in her chest? Why is she nauseous with the profound sense of a loss she'd never anticipated? She half-wants to cry, but her eyes are dried-up; she has nothing left in her.

She has nothing left at all ... because this isn't her world anymore.

Then Kai exhales. "Fuck, you're a pest."

It isn't remonstrance but rueful praise.

Dee smiles crookedly. "I get it from my mom."

"She's not gonna like this, either. Us."

"At least you agree there is an  _Us_."

"And Sayumi and Sayuri— _shit_." Kai scrubs both hands through his hair. His face is a twist of misery. "If they knew I touched their friend—"

Dee squeezes his arm. "I promise they'd love you just the same. They're already worried you're going to end up all alone. They don't want that to happen to you." Gently. "I don't either, Kai."

"Dee, look. I'm sorry, but—"

"They'll deal with it, Kai. They have to.  _You_  have to. Because I'm not giving you up that easy." She goes up on tiptoe, her face close to his. "Now about that kiss."

Saya buries her face in her hands, just as Kai's arms pass around Dee, and the softness of clinging lips begins. She doesn't move until the sounds and bodies fade away, and she is left alone beneath the pale boughs of the tree.

Cherry blossoms pirouette slowly into the night air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game of flats: A betting card game - but also Victorian-era slang for sapphism. Based on the poem "a New Game / Call’d Flats with a Swinging Clitoris."
> 
> Patience: Another name for solitaire - with 'Playing Solitaire' as a pun on masturbation.
> 
> Leave it to Saya and Haji to couch crassness in card puns 8')
> 
> Bugurdži is a Balkan Romani dialect. Nearly extinct in this day and age - which might explain Haji's tenacity in clinging to it.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Reviews are yum!


	17. Cherry Blossoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! This was supposed to hit during the weekend - but I got done with it pretty fast c: Second-last chapter of Act I. I'll take a little break after that, before getting started with the next act.
> 
> In the meantime, here's a srs talk between Saya and Haji, complete with angst, tears, nostalgia, and smut. Also a cw for mentions of child abuse/child trafficking. I've kept the references fairly subtle, but just in case!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy! Review, pretty please!

Haji finds her in the empty gardens.

Sitting on a bench near the pond, in the shade of a low-hanging cherry tree whose branches dip down like heavily beaded curtains. The moonlight falling through the night-blooms gives her a touch of enchantment. Bare shoulders gleaming under her elaborate updo, wisps of hair unraveling from their pins, an empty wineglass in her hand. Her gaze is fixed on the fairy-lights swagging the trees, or at nothing.

"Saya?"

She rouses. Under the dewy make-up, her face is wet with tears.

"Saya, are you all right?"

"Y-Yeah."

She scrubs hastily at her cheeks. He can practically hear her mouth shaping the words by rote.  _I'm fine. Nothing to worry about_.

By then he has crossed through the silky tangle of branches, gathering her into his embrace. She stiffens, taking deep breaths in an effort not to cry. Enveloping her shoulders, cool palm coasting along her nape, Haji feels the wild thubbing of her heart.

What happened after the dance for her dissolve into such distress? Was it his sudden absence? Something Victoire said? Her moods are so unpredictable lately. Triggers and tantrums waxing and waning, dictating his own stress-levels across the months.

But this is different. Her whole body shudders like a wineglass struck by a supersonic note.

"Saya." He takes her face in his hands. Her tears dampen his palms. "What's the matter? Did something happen?"

"No." She takes a huge whooping breath, then another. He feels her gathering herself. "I'm okay, Haji. Really."

"Why are you out here by yourself?"

"I just—wanted some air. I needed to think."

_About what?_  he nearly asks. But Saya realigns her body in a way that is almost casual, so his arms drop away. The bench is narrow, most of it occupied by the tulle folds of her skirt, which she smooths out but does not rearrange. He gets the message and straightens too, an automatic orientation where he disguises the raw concern beneath a quiet solicitude.

It always feels like a play—because like a play he and Saya never deviate from the same tired script.

"Why are  _you_ out here?" she asks, when the silence needs to be filled.

"I was looking for you. The others are ready to head home."

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"

"It is all right. We can stay here awhile longer."

She exhales and doesn't reply. Both her palms are wrapped around her wineglass, thumbs tracing its delicate stem. Haji's preternatural hearing catches the thin high vibrato of the touch. Her pulse overlaps it, carrying the depth and dizziness of a body on the verge of crumbling.

Quietly, he asks, "Shall I bring you something to eat?"

"I'm  _fine_."

Conventional wisdom decrees that he leave her alone. Let her have her solitude, before she does damage-control on her make-up and rejoins the  _bon ton_  in the glittering dining hall. It was a routine dance between them in the war: advance and retreat, keeping the mess of emotions quiet, and making sure it kept. There were always larger messes to deal with in the war.

But the war is over. And the dance he'd resigned himself to as her Chevalier is one he refuses to fall into as her lover.

He looks at her with a gentle directness. "Saya, you need not be  _fine_  every moment. If something is wrong, you should talk to me."

"Not everything can be fixed with  _talking_."

"How will you know unless you try?"

Flinching, she turns away. "I just—I need a moment, okay? There's no need for you to hover."

"Forgive me. I was concerned that—"

"Don't be."

"Of course." A pause. "I only love you. That is all."

At this, her anger dissipates. She seems close to tears again.

Reaching out, Haji takes one of her hands in his. Gently massages her fingers from nailbed to knuckles. By degrees, he feels her start to relax. They remain together, hands clasped, the silence not companionable as much as contemplative.

The fairy-lights reflect off the water in the pond. Gazing at them, Saya seems to be holding her breath.

Then, she whispers, "Did you know about Kai?"

"Kai?"

"Him and Dee."

This is such a non-sequitur that he blinks. "What?"

Saya's hand stays in his. He feels her tripping pulse. "I walked in on them. Talking. They're... involved."

"Oh."

It is a loaded sound. Not  _Oh_ ,  _I see,_  but  _Oh_ ,  _you've learnt of it._  He is probably one of the few people who knows about Kai and Dee's ill-considered affair. Even if he hadn't accompanied the team to Rio, his Chiropteran senses are infallible, and miss nothing.

But he hadn't brought it up with Kai. Not when the other man, after the journey home, had tried so hard to act casual, while both warning and pleading Haji with his eyes not to ask questions.

Haji had seen no reason to ask. Dee is a consenting adult, and a formidable fighter. Whatever happens between her and Kai is—if not exactly  _approprié_ — none of his business.

Perhaps Saya feels otherwise? Perhaps her brother's budding relationship is another reminder that she no longer fits into her family's lives?

Or is her sadness rooted in something deeper?

Haji experiences a kneejerk twinge—insecurity, jealousy—and sets it aside. Squeezing Saya's hand, he says, "Kai had reasons not to share the news."

"So you  _did_  know."

"I—"

"I should have guessed." She yanks her hand from his. The look she gives him is strange. Almost accusing. "You two are thick as thieves now. You probably cover up for each other all the time."

"Saya—"

"When I wondered about you and Victoire, Kai said you were only friends. I doubt it was the truth."

_Victoire_? Where has this come from? He was ready—if not happy—to assume she was perturbed over Kai's affair. He hadn't considered—

"Saya. Victoire is an old friend."

"A  _friend_  who remembers your favorite food. Who touches you—" she aims a finger along his nape. "—right at the sweet spot."

"She is that way with everyone."

"I suppose she speaks  _Bugurdži_  with everyone too?!"

"It is her mother tongue." He fights a reflexive wince. "She was trafficked as a twelve-year-old from Kosovo. A wealthy French couple adopted her. You can ask her yourself. Half the UNHCR initiatives use her as a spokesperson."

"Oh! So you share a sordid history as well as a language!" She throws up her hands. "That's  _worse_!"

"Worse or better—it is hardly a secret. Or a rarity in that part of the world."

Or anywhere. His own tribe had coasted from city to city, paying their way with scrawny packages of flesh-and-bone. It was why they'd sold him off. It remains the same the world over: the demarcations of nations on maps dissolving into a quagmire of bartered children's bodies—for slave labor, for sport, for sex.

It was this understanding that forged his friendship with Victoire. A mutual thanks for sailing the ocean of flesh-peddling, with their feet dry and their eyes on the horizon, until they found in music their Al-Judi.

Then Saya explodes—"You're saying you  _haven't_  slept with her?"

" _What_?" God, she is making him woozy with these turns! "Of course I haven't!"

"I don't believe you!"

"Saya, I would never—"

"I watched you two together. You were—you were  _smiling_."

This stirs the beginnings of a dry exasperation. "Smiling? Well, it is no wonder you doubted me."

She swings a punch at him; he catches her wrist in stunned reflex. "—Saya, have you gone  _mad_?"

"Yes.  _Yes_. I keep thinking this is the same world I left behind! That  _you're_  the same person I remember! But you're not!  _Nothing_   _is_!"

"Saya—"

She pulls free, leaping to her feet. Rays of moonlight carve through the tree's shade, picking up the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. She is trembling under her heavy gown.

"This is all wrong," she whispers.

Haji, rising more slowly, frowns. "'Wrong'?"

"This. Us. I'm all wrong for you. You could be out there with other women. Beautiful,  _normal_  women. I wish I could be that for you. But—"

"Saya." Helplessly, he spreads his hands. "What makes you think you are not? Victoire is normal. So are you. You are lovelier and stronger in all the ways than her, but otherwise—"

Her scowl cuts him short.  _Don't try it, sir._ "She said I wasn't your _type_. She found the idea of us together  _funny_."

He represses a grimace. "She has no idea what my type is."

" _Neither do I!_ "

Can she truly be so dense? "It is  _you_ , Saya. It has only ever been you."

From his boyhood to his adulthood, her star has dazzled with an intensity that blinds. The more he tries to find other women attractive, the brighter she burns, eclipsing all else. It will always be Saya, or no one.

_If I cannot convince her to trust me,_ he thinks miserably,  _it will end up being no one._

He chooses his words with care. "Why would you think I am interested in Victoire? Or anyone? Have I given you any reason to believe—"

"Because the war's ended, and you've gone on with your life. You, and Kai, and David and Julia and Lewis, and  _everyone_." Her voice is clotted with grief. "Everytime I look at you, I remember that. You're fine without me—you don't need me to be your friend, or your g-girlfriend. I've been gone so long... too long... and I keep thinking you're mine, but you can't be." She lets out a hitching gasp, almost a sob. "You're so far away now. I keep trying to catch up to where you are, but there's so little time... barely three years before I'm gone, and then—"

He snatches her up, silencing the dreadful monologue with a kiss. Her gasp buzzes against his mouth; he swallows it down.

She is rigid at first. Then the strung-out strain in her body melts away, and she flows against him on a sob. Crazy to just kiss her like this, but wonderful too: all hot skin and the disarray of pink lace and wild ringlets threaded with motes of perfume—as if all his wants have tangled themselves into a fragrant bouquet in the shape of Saya. It takes everything in him not to push up her skirts and have her right there on the grass.

Remind her, in a way that goes beyond words, that he will always be  _hers_.

Instead, he breaks the kiss.

Saya sways in his arms. Her eyes are half-lidded, almost punch-drunk. Nothing alive but her shaky inhale-exhales and the night-music of the garden.

Gently, Haji strokes her hair. "Saya. Please tell me the truth. This is not about Victoire, is it?"

"Yes. No." She swallows. "I-I don't know."

"What then?" Quieter, "Surely you do not think, because I have a separate life, or Kai a girlfriend, that we have forgotten you?"

She draws in a hitched breath, trying to steady her pulse.

"I-I'm sorry. I know it's unfair of me. I shouldn't be so—so—"

"Please do not apologize. You feel what you feel. There is no helping it."

"I  _should_  help it. It's just hard. Your life is so different now."

He kisses her forehead. "My life is right here."

"Haji..."

He reaches to pluck the ornate pins from her unraveling chignon. Her hair spills down around her face, releasing the delicious burst of her scent. He wraps a handful around his palm, a dark glossy skein, and lifts it to his lips.

"When we were young," he whispers. "I used to dream of this. Being able to kiss you. To touch your hair."

"My hair?"

"Your hair. Your mouth. The tips of your fingers. It felt forbidden to even imagine it. You were always so far beyond my reach."

"It's the other way around now, isn't it?" Her gaze is shaded, even as her true anxiety shows in the way she plucks at the buttonholes of his suit-coat. "I'm here. But you're at a place I can't touch. With a career, a network. No one would look at us and believe I taught you everything first."

A smile flickers behind Haji's face. Affection. Acknowledgment. "You taught me etiquette."

"And now everyone thinks you're a princeling and I'm a peasant."

"You taught me card games."

"And now your pokerface is better than mine."

"You taught me the cello."

"And now you're a renowned musician."

He caresses her damp face with his thumb. "You taught me  _life_."

In the gloaming, her eyes trace the scars ridging his cheekbone. "The ugliest parts of it."

"But also the happiest."

_Happy_  as he hadn't been since being wrenched away from his family. How to tell Saya about those days? The cruel lapses of loneliness. The crueler augers of abuse. A child in the hands of monsters, a nerveless mouthful of meat to be chewed up and spat out. He'd accrued his share of bite-marks—psychic, literal—by the time he'd reached the Zoo. Holding his body like a raw wound, his surliness a bandage hiding what he'd sworn never to speak of again.

Yet, in the mansion, he'd felt his outsidership too intensely to bear it in silence. In Saya's room, he'd cracked, and cried.

And Saya had comforted him. For all her petulance, she was tender in a way he'd never anticipated. Where he'd expected cruelty, she shown him compassion. Where he'd dreaded depravity, she'd taken him by the hand and shown him that the loss of family didn't presage a loss of innocence. And day by day, in the warm space between their bodies, Haji had learnt how to shed the layers of mistrust, and rediscover how to be a child again.

Quietly, he says, "I know things are strange right now. But I promise you will overcome this, Saya." He leans in, their foreheads together. "Until then, I will give back all your lessons to me, ten times over."

Her breath feathers hotly across his. But it is nothing to the heat of her flush. "What if that's not enough? What if you grow tired of me?"

"Never. You made me yours, and it will remain so. For as long as I exist."

She smiles. But he can see the stress-lines of doubt beneath.

Folly to believe conversation can fix everything. She is right about that, at any rate. Talk is not the true healer. Time is.

Except their time together is so fleeting. Now that he is closer to her than he'd ever dreamed of being, dread at her leavetaking haunts Haji every moment. He wants her with him, one hundred percent. Wants that melting smile she entrusts to him in bed. Her trust itself, a precious house of cards that he would slit his own throat before toppling. Her laughter and kisses. Her piercing cries. Those small, strong fingers that can wield a blade with lethal precision, but still tremble when he twines his fingers through them. How she wiggles her toes and sings to them when rolling on her stockings in the morning; how she grabs his hand and playfully bites the knuckles in a coded  _Come to bed_ at night. Her habit of sending him kitten videos on her phone, even when they are in the same room together. Her impatience for the so-called modern marvels of today: VR goggles, edible water tablets, 3D printers, cyborg limbs. Her adoration for the ordinary joys that no one else pays mind to: authentic tacorice, seashells, Luna moths, fairytales, pink roses.

All the rare moments where the unfamiliar and familiar are an inextricable blur. Where their simpatico as war-comrades transforms into the raw and tantalizing negotiations of first love.

Saya whispers, "I'm yours too. I-I know it feels less true, because I'm only here a little while. But it's true in my heart. I swear."

Moved, he cannot help but smile. "You need not swear. A kiss will do."

She goes up on tiptoe, hands curling around his shoulders. Her lips are soft as creampuffs, and as sweet.

Sighing, Haji encircles her closer. Takes the kiss for what it is meant to be: a reconciliation as much as an inevitable return to themselves. Then it deepens, so the garden blurs at the edges, a bright floret of want opening up between them. Saya murmurs a soft  _Oh._ The purest, most perfect articulation of desire Haji has ever heard.

Cupping the back of her skull, he lures her in, their mouths opening wider, and this is trust, this is truth. The shape of her in his arms, all soft pastel colors and cherry-dark sweetness, a rose, a ruby, a pink ribbon, a cliffside lily he'd swoop to his death just to touch.

Remembering himself, he breaks off, "We should—go back inside."

But his body, wrapped around hers, stays put, as spellbound as the rest of him.

"In a little bit," Saya says.

"Someone might miss us."

"Ssh."

She coaxes him back. Moonlight makes dappled patterns across their bodies through the cherry-tree. Saya presses him possessively against the curving tree trunk. The breeze blows off the aroma of her skin, the life caught in her dark hair. And Haji is breathing purely for  _her_  now, hunger blooming irresistibly from the touch of her mouth against his, from the heat-waft of pheromones from her pores.

She gasps when he reverses their positions. Pinning her delicately against the rough tree-bark, arms up on either side of her. Feasting, less delicately, on her mouth, the arc of her neck, the dovelike sweep of her collarbones. The night air is fifty degrees and dropping: too cool to break away from the narcotic of her body-heat.

"Did you really—" Saya says breathlessly.

"Hm?"

"Did you really fantasize about me? About touching my hair."

"Yes."

His palms smooth her tumbled hair, cupping and worshiping her face, her neck. The wind stairs again, and he catches the aroma of her sweat, rising up between her breasts. She sighs as he nuzzles her satiny throat straight down to where they swell above her low-cut neckline. Her pulse is a skittish butterfly.

She whispers, "What else did you fantasize about?"

"Anything I could think of. Anything I ought not to."

"Oh," a smile lights her face, "I think you ought to."

He encircles her closer to unzip her bodice halfway. When the fabric gapes, he kisses lower, down her sternum. Her brassiere is a shade paler than her skin, and smells of her. Saya gasps as he bends to drop wet kisses on each of her nipples through the semi-transparent silk. He suckles them gently through the fabric, teasing each one into a crinkled stiffness until she pipes hot cries into the chilly air.

"Ha-Haji…"

He lets go. "I thought of this as well.  _Vous toucher partout. T'embrasser partout_."

She wavers out a sigh, " _Juste …embrasser_?"

" _Il y a un baiser …et baiser_."

This makes her redden. "You never—told me."

"We were at war."

"What about before that?"

"Before?" His widespread palms gather up her skirts, the frothy petticoats rustling together. "I did not dare."

"Why?"

"What could I have offered you?" His voice rasps, regret hidden beneath its quiet shell. "I had nothing. And you had given me everything."

"That—that's not true. I— _oh_."

He's caught the hem of her gown in one hand. The other ghosts cool along her inner thighs. Past the tops of her silk stockings to the stripes of warm bare skin above. White panties: lace and cotton. The fabric damply hints at the matted curls within.

Gently, his thumb traces her through them. Saya gasps, and lets her legs fall shyly open.

"Did you—think of doing this too?"

"Yes."

And a hundred wickeder things.

"How old were you? When you first started?"

"Thirteen."

"That's... so young."

She says  _Young_. She means  _Innocent_.

And, looking back on it, he was. The first night in his narrow bed, giving in to the fever inside him, his boyhood fantasies so intense yet so intensely pure. Picturing the pink pillow of Saya's mouth, her dainty hands, the delicate curve of her décolletage, the attar of roses rising up from her skin. Each recollection was the softness-bordering-on-pain that he felt for the fragility of baby animals. Yet it was followed by stirrings that made a mockery of his quiet fraternal devotion, a biological conspiracy of blood-tissue-tremors that left him each morning queasy with guilt.

Facing Saya in the daylight over their breakfast of coffee and crêpes Suzette, over their rigorous German lessons with parchment and inkblots strewn between them, after their playful romps on horseback across the Zoo's grounds, between their lazy picnics by the green equipoise of the cliffside, Haji would catch her eyes and feel a flush marbling his skin.

Desiring her felt a sacrilege of the most shameful sort. To conflate that desire with the act of sex—not the dry terminology imparted to him with a schoolmasterish boredom by Joel, or the matter-of-fact crudeness of animals pairing in the fields, or the bawdy jocularity of gentlemen's talk in the parlor—but the  _things_  he'd endured after being sold as a child, felt unimaginable.

He desired her, yes. He dreamed of her from boyhood to adulthood, lost sleep and seed over her. And yet, he had no designs upon her. Even with his thoughts swooping in one place—the mystery and familiarity of her—his need was to protect her, please her. He grew to love her intensely, ineradicably, indiscriminately. All the parts of her, even those that remained unknown to him.

The only person he'd ever  _want_ —if not for the impossibility of ever having her.

Until now.

Saya's sighs blur on a high startled cry as his hand dips down her body. Past the band of her panties, the lace-edged elastic sliding over the knuckles, then over his wrist. Keeping his hand captive, while his arm holds her captive in turn, squeezing her in tighter, his face in her hair.

When his fingers dabble lightly at her entrance, she shudders. Inside, she is seeping wet. Her body kicks off spectacular waves of heat, like the noon haze in the monsoon.

"H-Haji—"

He freezes. "Should I stop?"

"Don't you _dare_."

She clings to him, hot little face burrowing into his neck. Stirs in slow-motion as he strokes with a deliberate delicacy, spreading the dewy moisture up and out. Her cries are always so beautifully soft. But when he gets it right, they become a rich red symphony—all slickness and overwhelmed tremors, her exhalations rising from her diaphragm and out her parted lips, past the wakefulness she wears each moment like a breastplate.

He tries to imagine it that way, a tempo of vibrations from the center of her, cracking distance into dissolution, the dry terminology of Latin lost beneath the allusions of music, the purest sounds of life: "clitoris", a flicking fingertip, a rosebud delicacy, blossoming in a bariolage of hot sparks through her whole body; "vulva" a secret play of lips, a delicate pressure, two fingers sunk to the knuckles and rubbing in slow circles, coaxing cadenza into contralto into…

" _Oh_ "

Saya grabs his wrist to keep his hand in place. He knows his fingers are pressed to the good spot inside, (and there's a thought:  _inside_ , a secret space played in tender mimicry of glissando) because her breaths are stuttering on sobs, her thighs clenching and unclenching around his hard-boned wrist, her hips twisting erratically as the tension in her rises and ruptures.

Her finish is a lovely thing: a sobbing spiral, a fluttering fall. Vibrating, she clings to him, face buried in his shirt. Gently, Haji draws his fingers away. They glisten before he pops them into his mouth. Salty, succulent. The taste makes his blood froth.

The task should have done what it intended: soothed them both. Yet all he can think of is pinning her against the tree and riding her to the edge. Longing suffuses him, even as his mind races a million directions: He dare not take her in such a public place... A lady deserves a warm bed within four walls, not a knee-trembler in the chilly night air... She makes him so hot and  _hungry_...

His lips skim hers; permission, pleading. "...Saya?"

"God.  _Yes_."

He takes her by the waist, lifting her so high she dangles past her tiptoes. Nudges the panties aside, before fumbling one-handed with his zipper. Lip bit, she drops her palm to assist. Strong fingers closing around him, with the same confident grip she uses on her sword.

And when he goes into her, she clasps him wetly, exquisitely inside, a fire-flower blooming in reverse. He never gets tired of it: that first liquid slip of her most tender flesh swallowing his. The way both of them shudder at the body-closeness, her kittenish cry unfurling from her throat and into his mouth. Her thighs tremble as she struggles to keep her toes on the grass.

"Let go," he whispers. "I've got you."

Obeying, she wraps her legs around him, a beautiful silky petal clinging to his skin.

He gives her a moment's flexion until she adjusts. The rest of him, exultant and dizzied in every particle, can't focus anywhere but on the wrapped closeness of her—all syllabic sighs and buttery sweetness. Excess fabric is caught everywhere between them. Yet that makes it twice as exciting: their bodies enacting a smooth fitting beneath the layers of petticoats; their lips touching and parting on soft, wet noises; and the wind stirring the curtain of cherry-blossoms encircling the tree in an illusion of secrecy…

From the entrance to the gardens, Victoire's voice floats in. "Haji? Are you there?"

It is an ice chip flung to Haji's nape.

_Damn_.

Of all the inopportune—

Victoire's heels click on stone tiles, then crunch softly on underbrush as she steps into the garden.

"Haji? Come  _oooon_. The manager wants a word."

Her footsteps come closer. Wincing, Haji tries to disengage from Saya. But his Queen's entire body folds around him, a ribboning of arms and legs and a slick clench of heat. A groan presses against the walls of Haji's throat. He makes himself look at Saya, who looks back.

Her eyes are like nothing he has seen before. Red-hot and ravenous. Like she will swallow him down and digest him in stages unless he escapes.

"Saya." It husks painfully in his chest. "Not—a good moment—"

" _Yoohoo_? Haji? Where are you hiding?"

He hears the rustling of Victoire's gown. Her footsteps edge toward the cherry tree.

"Saya— _please_ —"

She ripples around him in answer. He gasps, every atom in his being funneling agonizingly to where they are connected. He can't think, can't breathe, can't focus anywhere but on her living heat, her pulse and power.

It  _is_  power, he understands dimly. A reminder that he belongs to her. That he will answer the call of her body before the clamorings of any mortal woman.

The knowledge crashes through him in a surge of blood. When Saya grapples him closer, her hips twisting in a command to  _move_ , he obeys. Kissing her with a fierce, wretched, reckless love. Breathing in the scent of the cherry blossoms, and her own mouthwatering aroma that makes him want to nuzzle and  _bite_.

"Haaaaji?"

Victoire's call is disturbingly close, discordantly cheerful. Which sums up the woman herself, truth be told. Two-dozen steps, and she will be within range—and earshot—of himself and Saya. The pink veil of the cherry tree cannot hide the onomatopoeic sounds of sex.

If Saya knows, she doesn't care.

She rocks against him shamelessly, ankles crossed at his waist. Her face is absorbed not with pleasure but a fierce concentration. Eyes reflecting the moon, and nothing; there is a glazed sheen to them that reminds him of when she falls into herself in moments of extremis.

When they kiss, her fangs catch his lower lip. Blood spews into their mouths. Haji gasps, the taste going through him in a carnage of disorientation. Then he can't think anymore—he is driving into her over and over, deep, almost savage stabs. Jouncing her against the tree trunk, her skirts bunching in the small of her back, her sounds unspooling into a war-call of triumph.

No way Victoire won't hear. She ventures a few feet toward the cherry tree, and lets off a shrill " _Eeek_!"

Whirling, she flees the garden.

Right before Haji breaks—shuddering, seismic, stunned. Words liquify to a spill of superfluity: half-French, half-Bugurdži, the filthiest of both.

A semaphoric testament of everything she does to him.

Afterwards, slumped against the tree, his arms bracketing Saya's rumpled shape, he struggles to catch his breath. His Queen shakes down her skirts, eyes aglow. He has no idea if she came or not: her body still vibrates at a wicked pitch.

But her smile is like a cat with a bowl of cream.

"Mm." She nuzzles his collarbone. "I like when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Speak in tongues for me. Or Bugurdži."

He dares a smile. "It was all the same… where the priests were concerned."

Giggling, she gathers up her hair in one hand, fanning her neck with the other. The salty perfume of her body envelops him; Haji inhales it greedily. Blood lingers copper-bright on his tongue. It is a first: she hasn't fed from him in months, least of all during lovemaking.

Taking it as a hopeful sign, he looms in closer. Skates his palms adoringly up her neck to frame her face, bestowing the flavor back to her in a kiss.

Cooing, Saya eats his mouth like candy. Then, gasping, she jerks away. " _Don't_."

"What—?" He blinks dizzily. "Saya, what's wrong."

"Don't—don't do that. Don't cut yourself for me."

"The cut was already there."

"What?"

"From when you kissed me." Rare playfulness wells. He pushes his face into the tumble of her hair, mouthing her ear. "Right before we scandalized Victoire."

Flushing, Saya twists away. "I-I don't know what came over me."

He can hazard a few guesses, but keeps them to himself. It is the moment he is learning to dread: when her glow fades into gloom. When they fall back into the flat cadences of distance and dissembling. Their history is too bleak for them to let go completely. Sex, for Haji, has too long been a sordid generality at best. Whereas for Saya, it is a terrifying unraveling at worst.

Yet he hopes, with time, the ambivalence will fade. That she will allow herself enjoyment in their intimacy, without guilt afterward.

Her brow has resumed that familiar half-frown. He smooths it with a thumb, and kisses it. "Saya, please. We were having a good time."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "I d-don't know what came over me," she repeats. "You shouldn't have let me—"

"It was only a bite."

"Maybe I don't  _want_  to bite you. Maybe it makes me feel like—like I'm—" Breaking off, she squeezes her temples, as if the pressure might snap some hidden hinge inside her. " _God_. First the  _thing_  in the training room, and now  _this_? What is  _wrong_  with me?"

"Saya." Haji takes her shoulders in a gentle grip. "It is all right. You did not hurt me. I am sorry I upset you. But we are both fine."

"I never know if I'll be  _fine_  a minute from now."

"Who among us is?"

Bristling, she wrenches away. "I'm glad you find this funny!"

"Not funny. No. But why tear yourself up when there was no danger?"

" _No danger_?"

"Not between us." He takes her face in his hands. "Please. You barely nicked my lip. I have received worse."

"And it's always  _from_  me. Or  _for_  me." Her fists clench. Rage gathering in the clearness of her eyes. "Is that what you get off on, Haji? Hoping I lose my head and hurt you?"

"What?" His mouth drops open. The rest of him stymied with shock. "Of course not. But there need not be shame between us. Not over this." Gentler, "Saya, I am not downplaying your concerns. I understand them. But I also feel you could be getting more... satisfaction from this than you allow yourself."

"It's not about  _satisfaction_! You don't know. You can't possibly know what it's like." Shivering, she looks away. Her raw voice holds no spirit. "Anything I do, I second-guess myself. Always wondering if I'm a normal person. If I can be safe, and sane, and  _good_. Wondering if I'm any different from—"

_From Diva._

He waits. When she remains silent, he says, "I will not help you say it." Not tonight. Not ever. "You have spent your entire life atoning for what your sister has done."

"None of it would've happened if I hadn't let her—"

"If you had not what? If you had not felt sorry for her? If you had not left her locked up?" She flinches. But he keeps on, speaking with a quiet forcefulness he rarely allows but which he cannot hold back any longer. "Saya, you are  _not_  Diva. I see each time how your happiness chafes against the fear that you might be. But I promise it is not so."

She swallows. "When I disconnect, I'm as dangerous as Diva. We both know that."

"Disconnection is not the same as letting go."

She claims he doesn't understand. But how can he not? The Chiropteran's appetite gnaws constantly at both their nerves. Taken together with Saya's guilty streak—as wide as the curve of the night sky—of course she is wary. But is this ring-around-the-rosey of recriminations worth it? Does she think, by beating herself up after each moment of shared joy, she can starve her instincts out? Starve his love out?

A rejection of her whole self—and by proxy of him.

Reservation feeds resolve. He draws closer. Looming above her in the dappled moonlight from the trees, then kneeling. He bares his neck. It is the most natural thing in the world. Offering himself to her. Proving that there is nothing of him she is not permitted have.

"Saya. Please."

She looks down warily, her mussed hair falling around her face. "Wh-what?"

"Take what you need."

"Haji—"

"You have not fed from me since your Awakening. Perhaps because you feel it makes you a monster who is glad to be." Gently, "I swear you are not. You never will be."

"I—"

He takes her hand. Kisses the fingertips, and the palm, before placing it on his pulsepoint. Her thumb rests there, imparting an exquisite caress that makes him shiver.

"Please. Do not deny yourself."

Her eyes widen, their interior taking on that familiar red glow. Hesitation. Hunger.

He knows she may refuse, as she did many times in the war. But just as likely she may absorb his trust, through the touch of his skin, his look, his voice. She will gather him in, and bestow the bite that melts so blissfully from pain to pleasure; the restorative union between Queen and Chevalier. Afterward they both will be better for it.

Instead she blanches and staggers back. "You—you're out of your mind—"

"Saya—"

She nearly trips over her gown. Eyes gone huge and swimmy. "No.  _No_. I can't—"

"Saya—there is no reason to—"

" _Just leave me alone_!"

She runs off, disappearing into the treeline on the far side of the pond. Leaving him kneeling there, wondering where he went wrong.

Where he went wrong this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vous toucher partout. T'embrasser partout: Touching you everywhere. Kissing you everywhere.
> 
> Juste …embrasser?: Just kissing?
> 
> Il y a un baiser …et baiser: Well, there is a kiss... and a kiss ("baiser" can double as a 'kiss,' or a 'fuck.' Haji is getting cheeky here.)
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Next chapter will fall sometime in mid-December!


	18. Blodfødt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie-doki! Final chapter for Act I! Ending on a sinisterish note, as the plot's gears begin moving in slow-motion (...super snail-paced slow motion...). Hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> I'll resume updates for Act II, hopefully around mid-to-late January! Heaps of love and smoochies for all the support and feedback I've gotten on this project. I will be sure to keep you guys updated about little snippets/plotty stuff on tumblr, in between my Endless Queue.
> 
> Reviews are delicious and nutritious!

 

Yabuchi Island

Uruma,

Okinawa Prefecture 904-2304

In the dark cubbyhole outside the observation chamber, two men are in heated argument.

"—Carsten, what the  _fuck_? We're scheduled to raze this place down by next week. I've got no time for crazy stunts—"

"Not a stunt, Jordy. I swear!"

"So what the hell do you call  _this_?!"

"I'm recording a  _demonstration_. To show to the board. They wanted a bona fide super-soldier, right?"

"That guy's not—"

"He's all that, and more. Just trust me, Jordy. This is the real deal."

Jordan Tibbetts scrubs both hands through his graying bristle-brush hair. It's less a nervous tic than a narrowly-avoided impulse to reach out and throttle Carsten.

 _Motherfucking jackass piece of shit._  What has he gotten himself into this time? The board have already sent out the memo. The experiment is kaput. Finito. Dead as a doornail-dodo-dildo-what-fucking-ever. It's time for Carsten to accept that and move on.

Not that Carsten will.

Eyeing his colleague balefully, Jordan is struck, as always, by the sheer  _nerdiness_  oozing from Carsten's pores. The quintessential picked-on Poindexter, right down to the wire-frame spectacles and pimply skin and frizzy mouse-colored hair.

Hardly unpardonable sins in themselves. Not even social handicaps: nerdy is  _trendy_  in this day and age.

Carsten's problem is a massive entitled streak concentrated to a prickly point of petulance. He doesn't scowl; he sulks. He doesn't wrangle; he whinges. His voice, face, body are all unified by that single unpleasant attribute. It's easy to picture him as a neckbeard in his teens: stooped over a crusty keyboard and trolling the abyss of reddit threads. Doxxing Ess-Jay-Double-Yous and championing meninism. Shit like that.

Sure, Jordan is ready to forgive these quirks. Carsten Andreasen is, whatever else, flat-out brilliant. Graduating with high honors in biochemistry from one of the finest East Coast institutions, he came highly recommended to Jordan's division. A definite asset to the company.

The furor around Cinq Flèches pharmaceuticals has died down. Its CEO, Van Argiano, has completed his term in federal prison. Released a decade prior, he's begun his own biopharma firm in the States—low-key and ostensibly harmless. The public, in general, are less wary about biopharmaceuticals. Venture capitalists too, are less shy about financing them.

It's what Jordan and Carsten counted on for their latest work:  _Project Epsilon_. A brainchild five years in the making. Their goal was to develop magic blue pills. Billed as the holy grail for all that ails middle-aged man: aching bones, fatigue, slowness, saggy peckers.

That was the sanitized flipside.

From the outset, Jordan and Carsten's ambitions stretched beyond ED remedies. They were perfecting a biological weapon. Half-steroids, half-supplements injected straight into the bloodstream. One shot would transform an ordinary grunt into a super soldier. Enhanced stamina, catlike reflexes, magnified senses. The works. Military research firms would fork over thousands— _millions_ —to get their hands on it. DynCorp. Honeywell. SAIC. They'd all line up like cherries in a slot machine— _ching ching ching_ —payoff.

Jordan and Carsten had worked hard to make it happen. They'd pulled strings—and twisted arms—to recover classified information from Cinq Flèches' archives. Jordan had put Carsten in charge of the operation.

 _Carte blanche, pochito_.  _Go all out._

It was like handing gasoline to a pyromaniac.

From the outset, Jordan had received unsavory reports. Illegal subjects being shipped in from third-world nations. Toxic chemicals improperly disposed of. Staff being strong-armed into signing non-disclosure agreements. He'd ignored it—and done his best to quell any rumors. He and Carsten were in the process of creating a magic elixir, for fuck's sake. A  _bona fide_  superhero pill. That didn't happen without getting your hands dirty.

Until someone leaked a video to the board.

Dirty? Forget dirty. The whole enterprise was  _rotten_. Half the specimens were trafficked children and septuagenarians from the likes of Laos and Cambodia. Most were malnourished and sickly. Nearly all of them died with horrific slowness. One escaped the facility barely four two prior. He tried to swim off their headquarters in Yabuchi Island—before succumbing to too much of the wrong chemical in his bloodstream. D67-turned-death-stew.

A close shave.  _Too_  close for the board.

Like sternutaphobiacs in a hayfield, they'd skedaddled before you could say  _Gesundheit_.

And now, here is Carsten. Back like the prodigal son you'd prayed would stay gone.

And he's got a friend.

The guy stands naked in the halogens of the harshly-lit testing chamber. There is an impermeable barrier of Plexiglas between him and the men in the computer room. But Jordan can see him perfectly. Tall and deep-chested, his pale skin is tinted yellowish by the tungsten glow. Muscles everywhere: slabbed across the thighs and arms, delineating shoulders and hipbones and calves. Dick like a stallion's, shaft and fuzzy scrotal bulb and all. His hair is a catalytically red hellfire, and his eyes are a bizarre two-tone contrast of brown and blue.

In the whiteness of the chamber, he is a colorful pillar of chaos. There are electrodes hooked to his pectorals and biceps.

"This is Tórir," Carsten says, following Jordan's gaze. "He agreed to come here."

"Where the hell'd you dig him up?"

Carsten's smile is sugar-giddy. "He found  _me_."

"What?"

"Just watch, Jordy. This guy is just—I mean.  _Damn_."

Well, that sounds… kinda gay. Not that Jordan's a bigot or anything. Live and let live, that's his motto. But there's something weird about the expression plastered to Carsten's face. A crushed-out elation.

Like a kid who's met his comic book superhero. Or his biggest wet-dream.

Then Carsten hits a switch on the console adjacent to the window. In the chamber, the speakers come on. "Are you ready, Tórir?"

The man, Tórir, nods. The mismatched eyes examining the chamber are expressionless. Yet Jordan senses a dark, cold menace lurking beneath. It is like looking into the eyes of a reptile. A predator.

"Okay," says Carsten. "I'm releasing the sarin gas into the chamber."

"Sarin—what the  _fuck_?!" Jordan butts in. "Are you out of your pickle-pated mind?!"

"Chill, Jordy. Just watch."

" _Watch_? You'll fuckin'  _kill_  him!"

"I won't. Nothing can."

"Carsten—"

" _Trust_  me, Jordan. I'm telling you. He's the real deal."

Real  _what_? Jordan stares with stunned stupefaction at Carsten. Who ignores him, and hits another switch on the console.

A waft of aerosolized mist blooms through the airtight chamber. Tórir blinks with mild curiosity. On the monitors, the seconds tick by. One minute. Three. Five. Ten.

Jordan waits, a cold welter of nails jangling around in his gut. He keeps expecting the guy to begin coughing. Watering from the eyes, leaking from the nose, losing control of bowels-bladder-brawn-brains before he collapses in death throes.

One whiff is all it takes, right?

Nothing happens. Tórir stays planted to the spot. No change in pulse or respiration. The screens mapping his vitals are a steady baseline.

"…the  _hell_?" Jordan squints. "Was that in even sarin?"

"One hundred percent," Carsten says cheerfully. "It doesn't make a lick of difference. Watch this."

He punches another button on the console. In the chamber, vertical slots appear in neat symmetry along the walls. Openings for sentry guns. Dark polished muzzles rotate and jut out. Tórir's eyes drift to each one, half-lidded with boredom. From the speakers, a cool mechanical voice begins a countdown.

_Five… four…three…_

Jordan blanches. "Carsten—Carsten,  _no_ —"

_Two…One…._

The chamber erupts into sizzling gunfire. Bullets strafe the floor in zigzag patterns. Ricochets pepper the ceiling with divots and flying chunks of plaster. Tórir remains where he is. The bullets tear through him: a relentless wave shredding muscles and spraying blood. He rocks back with the force of it. His arms pinwheel slightly for balance. But he doesn't fall. He reminds Jordan of a man caught off-step on the sidewalk.  _Whoopsy-daisy._

Blood drips across the floor. Flows from the torn-open puckers across his body.

But his expression remains calm. Placid even. A little smile hovering at his lips.

No danger. No damage.

"Christ." Jordan swallows dryly. "Jesus Christ on a pogo stick."

He doesn't understand what he's seeing. A voice inside him yammers that it's impossible, a trick, a hallucination, a bad dream. His mind, lacking the elasticity to wrap itself around the incredible sight, threatens to snap apart under the weight of its own shock.

"Carsten—" he whispers. "Carsten, he isn't—"

"He's unkillable," Carsten says proudly. "I could use grenades. Lasers. Blades. These guys—Jordan, these guys  _can't be killed_!"

" _These guys_? What? Gingers? Musclebound freaks?"

"Chiropterans."

"Chiropte—" A blast of rage melts the confusion out of Jordan's brain. He wheels on Carsten. "Nice try. Really.  _Fucking hilarious_."

"Jordan—"

" _Shut your mouth_. Did you really think I'd fall for it?" Temper tightens Jordan's musculature into a full-bodied migraine. He welcomes it. It's better than the gibbering horror earlier. "What'd you use? Dye pellets? Kensington gore? Is this some actor you hired—"

"He's real!" Carsten insists. "The tests are real! Jordan—"

"What kind of moron do you take me for? _Chiropterans_. Volunteering to be  _your_  test subject? And Red Shield not coming down like the wrath of God-fuckin'-almighty?"

"This guy's not with Red Shield! He's not with any of the Queens!"

"What then? A long lost relative?"

"Kinda."

"What the  _fuck_ —?"

"Jordan. Look. I know it sounds crazy. But—"

"You're damn right it sounds crazy! Dee-freaking-ranged. You think you can waste my time with this elaborate prank—"

" _Jordan! Shut it_!"

It is a high-pressure screech. In the artificial glow of the computer room, a brick-hued flush races down Carsten's cheeks. His eyes, behind the glasses, reflect not anger but the antic glitter of a child with a new toy.

A dangerous toy of mass-destruction. All for him.

"You don't get it, do you?" he says. "This is a gift, A  _miracle_. All this time, we were scrounging around old archives. Hoping to dig up something substantial on D67. Some way to use a Chiropteran's powers, without our subjects becoming monsters. But we failed. We failed because—"

"Because of  _you_ ," Jordan cuts in. "Because of your own stupid, selfish, short-sighted—"

Carsten slaps him. An open-handed slap like the type used to swat a mosquito. Dark spots burst in Jordan's line of sight. He staggers back, thudding against a control panel.

"Jordan.  _Shut it_." Carsten's voice belongs to something that's crawled out of a nightmare funhouse. His eyes bulge in the straining mask of his face. "You don't get it. You never have. We've been given something  _beautiful_. Something beyond our wildest dreams. Project Epsilon is a playdate in comparison. A groundbreaking cure for Wangular Softitude? The be-all and end-all of soldier-steroids? Don't make me laugh. We're talking about  _superhumans_  here. Creatures immune to bullets, knives, gas. Immune to  _death_   _itself_. Think of what we could accomplish if we cracked the secrets open. That guy—"

"You're telling me he's a Chiropteran?" Jordan's lip throbs where a trickle of blood seeps through. He swipes it off. His whole body is locked in uneasy tremors.

And  _Carsten_  is causing them.

Dorky little Carsten. A little puffed-up and pedantic, sure. But essentially harmless.

Now he looks like a creepy killer clown.

Except… it's not just Carsten. It's the guy in the chamber. Something about him makes Jordan's mind tighten into a quivering ball of dread.

"He's  _more_ than a Chiropteran, Jordan," Carsten sneers at him. "He's an  _ancient_. This guy has been around since the days Chiropterans roamed the earth. When they were worshiped as gods."

"You expect me to believe some cockamamie—"

"If you don't, then you're even more of a colossal  _fuckwit_  than I thought." The mad brightness in Carsten's eyes trickles sweat down Jordan's spine. "Just imagine. A transitional fossil. Alive and kicking and in our grasp. For decades, paleontologists derided the idea of a missing link. But what if they're wrong? What if Tórir proves there's a ranked hierarchy after all? And what if they're right? What if Tórir proves that Chiroptera are a species completely distinct from ours? No missing link, but a totally different tree of life. All the possibilities are before us. By studying this guy, we could learn the differences in our DNA helixes. Evolutionary shifts. Mating patterns. Plumbing. All we have to do is  _take_."

"And he's  _willing_  to be taken? Experimented on?" Jordan shakes his head. The surreality-factor is rising higher and higher. "Carsten, I'm not sure who's crazier. You or him. I mean, if he's actually a Chiropteran—"

"I never agreed to experiments."

The voice is silky smooth yet imposingly deep.

The two men whirl.

Tórir— _how the hell did he hear us?—_ stands by the chamber's glass wall, tall and strangely regal in his stark nudity, blood streaming off him. But his wounds are gone. The skin is smooth as ice, not a mark anywhere.

Reaching out, he taps a forefinger against the glass. _Tick. Tick. Tick_. The surface is made of high-tensile polyfiber. Nearly indestructible: it would take a nuclear warhead to compromise its structural integrity.

Yet Tórir keeps tapping.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Fine cracks start branching through the barrier, like fissures in bone china. A spiderweb spreading out from the nucleus of Tórir's fingertip.  _Tick. Tick. Tick._  The sound _—_ the  _sight_ —makes something in Jordan's gullet squeeze shut. He can  _feel_  it constricting, the air thinning and making him dizzy with it.

Beside him, Carsten's bravado dissolves in an eyeblink. Gawping, he scrambles back. "Tórir— _stop that_! Y-You need to wait until we decontaminate you. Otherwise—"

"You die." It is a bored statement of fact. "The great talent of your kind."

"Tórir—come on—"

"You're really a Chiropteran?" Jordan cuts in. "Carsten's not pulling my dick?"

Tórir stops tapping the glass. His mismatched eyes flick to Jordan's. They are luminous with some preternatural force Jordan had never encountered before. Even with the barrier between them, his body's reaction is intensely physical: a current of pure fear shooting electrically down the spine.

"I have no idea," Tórir says softly. "What a 'Chiropteran' is."

"Th-they call them something else, where Tórir's from," Carsten hastens to explain. " _When_  he's from. I think it was—"

"Blodfødt," Tórir says succinctly.

"What's that mean?"

"Born of blood." He smiles with one side of his mouth. "Easy enough to translate."

Jordan's heart is thudding. The ventricles are braided with fear. He isn't sure what Carsten has gotten himself into. But staring into Tórir's blue-brown eyes, he has a terrifying sense of unspooling control. Control of Carsten, of the situation, of himself. It is not unlike being a little pig who has let the Big Bad Wolf into his home. A huff, and a puff, and he'll blow everything to smithereens.

"You—you say you didn't agree to experiments," Jordan manages to stammer. "Why did are you here, then?"

"I thought it poetic to revisit where I'd arisen."

"The fuck?" Jordan rolls his eyes skyward. "We got ourselves a red-haired Rumi."

"Rumi?"

This kindles a glow of interest in those weird eyes. The first Jordan has seen. He doesn't like it.

"Yeah. Rumi. Some old-ass poet from back in the day." Sarcastically, "Maybe you've met him. If you are who you say you are."

"I am. Though I cannot say I have." Tórir tilts his head. "I disturb you, don't I?"

Jordan wasn't expecting to hear it so baldly stated. His first impulse is to deny it—but what's the point? His whole body is a network of tremors.

Audibly, he swallows. "Carsten mentioned the dead guards. Were you the one who killed them?"

"Guards?  _Oh_." Tórir's expression is marginally piqued. He could be recalling a café he'd recently sipped lattes at. "I required blood."

 _Fuck_.

"And… the mother and daughter at Uruma? That was you too?"

"Again. I required blood."

_Fuck fuckity fuck…_

Queasily, Jordan puts distance between himself and the test chamber. He keeps putting distance until his back bumps against the door-jamb. He wants to turn and flee, but can't. His eyes seem glued to Tórir's.

"S-So what are you after now?" he manages. "Wait—don't tell me.  _More_  blood."

Tórir laughs. The sound gives Jordan the heebie-jeebies. This creature—human, Chiropteran, Blodfødt, whatever he is—seems carved from the essence of menace itself.

Humanity cannot touch him, much less leave a mark.

"I am here," Tórir says, "To make a bargain with you."

"Bargain?" Jordan exchanges glances with Carsten. The other man's expression holds a flicker of panicked bewilderment. So Tórir hadn't shared anything about  _bargains_  with him, either.  _Figures_.

With effort, Jordan hardens his voice, "What do you want?"

"I want your help in capturing a Queen," Tórir says.

"Capturing a  _Queen_?" Jordan's jaw drops. "You're even nuttier than  _Carsten_. Why the fuck would you—"

"That is none of your concern." Tórir's lips peel back from his teeth, which are elongated into needle points. His eyes are glowy as backlit microscope slides of some unnatural bacterial culture. "But I will have her. And you will help me."

"You're pretty damn sure of yourself."

"I am. Because you will appreciate what I offer in exchange."

"What?"

"Two Queens for the price of one." That laugh again. Like glass shards scraping over broken bone. "By this time next year, I will have Saya. And in exchange,  _you_  shall have her two nieces."

* * *

_CLASS CONFIDENTIAL_

REASON: Wy, 1.26(b)

DECLASSIFY ON 01-01-2060

MEMORANDUM FOR ALL PERSONNEL

-FORWARDED MESSAGE-

FROM: J***** T*******

TO: A*** P***

SUBJECT: PROJECT EPSILON

Forwarding live video footage.

I am available for any questions after your perusal.

* * *

FROM: A*** P***

TO: J***** T*******

SUBJECT: Re: PROJECT EPSILON

Is this actual footage?

A real Chiropteran?

* * *

FROM: J***** T*******

TO: A*** P***

SUBJECT: PROJECT EPSILON

More than a Chiropteran.

A Chevalier.

We can discuss further details if you are open to renegotiate.

* * *

FROM: A*** P***

TO: J***** T*******

SUBJECT: Re: PROJECT EPSILON

Send additional footage.

We will be in contact very shortly.

* * *

Naminoue Beach

1-25-11 Wakasa, Naha

Okinawa Prefecture 900-0037

Saya returns to the villa close to midnight.

In nearly the same state as Tórir had last glimpsed her—her hair and dress disheveled, tears streaking her cheeks.

Without bothering with the elaborate security mechanisms, she flings the door wide open and stumbles inside. The light to the upstairs bedroom flicks on. Through the stained-glass luminosity of the window, Tórir watches her pace in and out of view, dragging pins out of her hair and letting it tumble across her back in a sheath of wild dark ringlets. Her whole body bristles with pent-up misery. A belly-ache of blood-starvation.

Tórir smiles, his face a pale coin in the shadows.

This is by far the most rewarding part of spying on her. Catching her at her most unguarded, in an illusion that he is actually intimate with her.  _More_  than that. Having a bird's-eye-view into her personal miseries, and the disharmonies between her and her Chevalier.

Which are considerable.

Fifteen minutes later, Haji has arrived. Mercilessly swift, and maddeningly one-track. Like Saya, he doesn't bother with the security system. He goes directly upstairs. Knocks perfunctorily on Saya's door, then steps inside.

And Tórir watches the fight erupt.

It is thrilling. A shadow-play of pantomime. In the pink clutter of the room, Haji cuts an elegant figure with his dark suit. His movements are smooth inky slashes. Not the presage of erupting fisticuffs, or furniture upended, or disaster galloping in the wind. Each gesture is stiff with supplication, despairing at the discord blossoming like a bloodstain between them. Tórir watches his lips move. The words are blocks of text, curlicued with courtesy and entirely unreadable to him.

And Saya...

As always she is a replica of the Red Queen herself. Shouting and gesticulating, her face is incandescent with the same irresistible energy: the burn of  _life_  nearly bursting at the seams. If Tórir could describe it in terms of aura, her nieces at the concert would be paltry baby-colors: sparkly coral, azure blue.

Saya, in contrast, overspills with dynamic waves of hemoglobin red.

Tórir remembers her in the alleyway—swift and strong and utterly savage. Remembers her from the window of the villa, her body an erotic twist of wildly burning eyes and breathlessly escalating moans. Remembers her from their chat at the concert, the shape of her smile, her little hands, the pretty brown eyes so bright on his. She'd given off an air of liking him.

It is progress. But he will have to be more careful. Her Chevalier is observant. If he does not want to stir a confrontation, he will have to waylay her next time she is alone.

And what will he do then? Charm her with words? Seduce her with touch?

Or challenge her to a battle—and see what she is made of?

_Choices, choices..._

Violent or warm, Tórir's goal is the same. He wants to know all of her, down to her most secret spaces. Her dreams, her nightmares. He wants to learn the delicate shape of her earlobe, the smooth juts of her shoulders, the pale arch of her foot, the heat between her thighs... whether she wills it or not.

_Oh, but she will..._

His eyes flick contemptuously to Haji. Hard to credit a creature as tamed as that keeping her satisfied in the long run. All her fire and vitality? Or does Saya prefer her men that way? One beckoning curl of her finger, and the obedient dog will roll over to show his belly for her.

_Weren't you the same way for the Red Queen?_

Anger and longing helix together at the memory. Frowning, Tórir shakes it off.

That was a lifetime ago. A means to an end.

And that end had come with cruel certainty, demolishing the Queens' kingdom beyond repair. He can do it again here. The world is stranger, the kingdom smaller, but no less vulnerable. He's already enlisted the aid of the two humans— _Jordan-and-Carsten_ —for that purpose. Ridiculous puffed-up pests, the two of them. But they are clever, if nothing else. They will serve him well enough.

Within a year, under Tórir's aegis, they will successfully be able to build an organization worthy of clashing with Red Shield. They will gather the resources necessary to prove a worthy contender, then a better.

And then they will capture a "Chiropteran" Queen.

Or three.

Tórir cares little for what they do with the younger twins. It is  _Saya_  he is interested in. For her potential as a war-weapon, same as her aunt. As a broodmare, same as her mother.

As herself?

Tórir shakes it off. Tries to ignore the syllables of  _Home_  shaping inside his brain with each glimpse of her face.

What cares he for her face or form? Since boyhood, he and his brothers have cared for nothing but power. Power to break bonds and bodies with the same indifferent ease, to never know hunger, or hurt, or humiliation.

His brothers are gone now. Their kingdom is a dust-bowl of memory in this glittering new domain where humans rule. The Queens places too, are reversed. Saya and her family are anomalies and outsiders as surely as Tórir is.

 _It does not matter,_  he thinks.  _They will still be made to pay._

His world may be a different one. But Tórir refuses to surrender his ambitions because of it. Doing so would mean forgetting his family, and all they had suffered. It would mean forgetting who he is.

It would mean forgetting who he could've been.

_With Sváva…_

_With Suffía…_

Their faces come to him for a moment—two little girls forever on the cusp of laughter. Small and soft and impossibly sweet. Yet he can no longer summon the details of them. Cannot recall their child-voices or their milk-scent with exactitude. Their bodies are made of salt, crumbling away in the icy whistle of wind cutting through his skull.

_No matter._

_That blood-debt will be paid, like all others…_

His eyes return to the window. Saya and Haji are still arguing. Their bodies circle like dancers at a ballroom, but in rigid anathema to one another. Then the breakage of distance: vitriol bleeding into passion. Haji enveloping her in his arms—and Saya letting him. Mouths firing kisses like hot arrows; clothes of heavy taffeta and tweed hitting the floor in a succession of dead-body thumps.

Tórir watches them tumble across the bed. Watches them tangle together, bare and sweat-sheened, the sheets rumpled with ghosts of a thousand comings-together past. They go through the delicate, difficult business of reconciliation. Their ease of closeness makes it hypnotic—and deceptive. Saya's body arches into Haji's with force. But her eyes are squeezed shut, her teeth clenched on short raw gasps. As if there is a secret inside that will escape her lungs unbidden.

And when it is over, she is the first one to roll away. The bathroom door slams open and shut. The pipes rumble with sounds of a desultory rinse-off. Then she re-emerges, fully-dressed in jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. Without meeting Haji's eyes, she hurries past him and out the bedroom—the mechanism of her body once again irrelative of his.

Poor silly Haji! How impotently he calls after her. How helplessly he slumps back in the bedsheets, hair awry and eyes glassy, raised heavenward in supplication for some miracle to reconnect him to his Queen.

Who runs downstairs, and out the villa. Tórir watches her stumble into her little car. The engine revs up, and she pulls in a tipsy zigzag out of the driveway.

Tórir watches her go.

_Shall I follow you, sweet Saya?_

_Shall I offer to kiss everything better—since Haji cannot?_

He smiles, then stops when a fritzing energy percolates the air. A déjà vu icing down his spine.

_Someone is approaching._

_Someone I once knew._

A  _blodprinsen_. One even older than Tórir.

The last child of the Blue Queen.

It is hard to credit it. So much time has passed, and there appear to be none of Tórir's old kin left anywhere. Yet the reactions of his body are unmistakable: one warship signaling to the other in fire-showers and blood. An image comes to him, blossoming from deepest memory, of a grinning man, skin and body the gold of sunlight, the sunlight just a cover for refracted fire, every particle of it hot and bright and dangerous...

_No._

_It cannot be._

Tórir's jaw clenches. Rage bubbles through him.

_It's that bastard._

He needs to leave. Quickly, before the newcomer gives chase. Because he will, the way he'd done centuries before, dogging the Red Queen's heels the same way she'd dogged Tórir's. Already the air is thick with the same unnatural tension, like a leash strained, like a bloodhound catching a scent, the hunt for the quarry running irrepressibly in its blood.

Tórir refuses to be that quarry. Never again.

In a blur of motion, he exits the beach. It is so swift that the sand barely stirs where he stood.

Across the beachhead, wind blows. The moon is lured deep into a smog of clouds: more storms are on the way. But for a moment, a slanted ray of pale light passes through the sky. It illuminates a long-boned figure by the shore, hair upswept in a stylish blond swirl, the angular lines of his face caught in a smile of grim recognition.

"Well, well, well," Nathan whispers. "Look what the tide dragged in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Nathan. Bye Nathan.
> 
> Apologies this chapter is so short, but the ones in Act II promise to be extra long, so hopefully it balances stuff out. Let me know your thoughts/suggestions for potential plot directions as we move forward! Review, purrty please! :)


	19. Act II

**BLOOD MOON RISING**

_ACT II_

_DAUGHTERS_

_Graphics by the fantastic Lipsticksandmolotovs!_


	20. Daughters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019, guys!
> 
> Act II is officially underway - and I suspect it will be a smidge controversial. Nonetheless, I hope it's enjoyable! We're finally getting into the supernatural twists in the tale, as well as delving more into the histories of Chiropteran Queens. There's a lot going on in this chapter, for which I apologize in advance. Expect lots of questions (which will not be answered until late in the tale 8|), as well as Saya angsting the night away.
> 
> As always, your feedback is wonderful and delicious and so precious to me! Do let me know what aspects of the tale could be improved, and what direction you'd like to see the plot go!
> 
> Review, pretty please!

Come with me now, away from Saya.

Now, now. Don't be stubborn. You need a break.

We  _both_ do. I left you in her strong-boned hands a while, and she's already left bruises, hasn't she? Your poor head—here, let me take it between my hands, and drop a kiss to the grubby hair-whorl—your poor head's fit to  _burst_ , isn't it?

_We-e-ell._

I should've warned you. She has that effect. It's the danger of being around Red Queens. Their personalities are so supercharged that their emotions are like tempests. That these tempests can wreak prehistorically fearsome thunderbursts should not startle you, any more than her servants ( _hang in there, Haji_!) drowning in the flash-floods of her tears.

Of course, Saya's personal storm has barely begun brewing. It will mature into a calamity of epic proportions—and then  _goodness, gracious, great balls of fire_ , what a light-show it will be!

But don't trouble yourself with that.

We've many chapters to go, and plenty of drama to keep us occupied.

If that's not to your taste, worry not! Apart from the ripe themes of love, madness and despair that continue to populate the storytelling annals, I vow that there will soon be a funeral, not to mention violence, politics, travels to exotic places, stopovers at less-exotic ones, a lover's spat culminating in disaster, not to mention a baby or two.

 _Whose_   _baby_ , you ask?

Oh, it doesn't matter. Let's turn away from these messy concerns, and talk of finer things. Of why Red Queen's tempers are boiling hot, and why Chevaliers have wings...

Hm? What's that? Wait a bit, for you are still out of breath, and some of you are fat?

 _Okaaaay_. I'll postpone that tale for another time.

Meanwhile, feel free to clutch your chest and catch a breather from Saya's bodycount podcasts. They won't follow you here. You have my word.

This is a safe place, where the sky is a pretty cornflower blue, and the perfume of petrichor has faded into the balmy warmth of summer and seaside. This is the Okinawa you wanted to see, when you first began the tale, right? A place far removed from the nightmare of the war, where each day begins with the safety of sunlight saturating your pores and your pillowcase.

Well. If that's what you want, I won't deny you. Bask to your heart's content.

While there's still time.

We have to depart soon, you see. We must follow our spunky heroine on her travels. Where is she going? Oh, it's not important right now. This is a restful interlude.

And you're thankful for it, aren't you?  _Bitches be crazy_ was merely an amusing dictum. Little did you know Chiropteran Queens embodied it as a physical force.

Truly, it's not their fault.

A Queen is a Queen. She is happiest in the give-and-take of bites and bloodshed.

 _Tsk_. You didn't realize that, did you? Foolish thing. You should have heeded my warning. A Queen is an entirely different creature from a fairytale princess. Dogged, and difficult, and dangerous. So it's better to keep your distance.

Cuddles are best suited for kittens. Queens require only your unfaltering loyalty.

Of course, there are other things Queens require. The stability of the kingdom. The removal of threats. The amassing of armies. Above all, the potentiality of daughters.

 _Heirs_.

Don't mistake me—Queens without heirs constitute a very different crisis among Chiropterans compared to humans.

For you, a  _queen_  is an emblem at best, a birthing-vessel at worst. A magnified reflection of her sex as a whole. Barren queens are divorced or discarded in your history books. Bold ones are beheaded or burnt at the stake. At every sphere, they are easy to delegitimize: on display for the public, their power boxed away alongside their voices, they serve as convenient scapegoats to criticize rulership without daring to insult the king. Similarly, the reduction of their roles to wife-and-mother leaves them open to attack for any perceived failings, for then they become a threat to not just the monarchy, but the realm itself.

Think of Katherine of Aragon, or Anne Boleyn. Think of Marie Antoinette, or Marie Stuart, or Juana the Mad. Tragedies and travails, that's all they endured.

I should know. I supped at their tables, trading with them wine and whispers. I sopped up the fear like sweat from their skins, and ate up their nightmares like sweetmeats.

Fascinating women, to be sure. But doomed the moment the crown was set upon their heads. Each of them was dazzled by the jewels poured into her lap, or by grand titles and grander designs. Each one fell for the promises of men whose words meant as little as dust in the wind.

It's inevitable. Among humans, a Queen's power is a corollary of the King's. She must always shape herself to his expectations, or suffer his royal wrath.

Not so with Chiropteran Queens, my doves!

For us, Queens loom so large in that they swallow up the sky. They fill our sensorium, our very psyches, a sun blotting out all other starry pinpricks of light.

They don't achieve this status overnight.  _Premiere leçon._ The  _title_  of the Chiropteran Queen. For while I speak in the human tongue, the truth is, the word  _Queen_ is loaded with dismally connotative baggage. Quene, cwǣn, kwēniz... all these words mean not ruler, but consort. Not liege, but serf.

Whereas for us, a Queen had many names. Each one suited to her unique role, and to her realm itself.

For the Welsh, the Queen was known as  _Cerridwyn_. The dark mother, resonating with magic. The shaper of destinies, the ruler of life cycles. For the Celts, she was  _Brigit_ —her name immortalized by the term _Breo Aigit_ , or "blazing arrow of strength." For the Norse, she was  _Hela_ , the sovereign of the Underworld—a catalyst of creation and destruction.

Go back in history, and you will find the Queens in many forms:  _valkyries_  and  _vættir_ ,  _kami_  and  _yūrei_. Each one embodying life and death, courage and wisdom, love and hate.

Yet what remains irrevocable is their power.

 _Seiðr_ , we called it. A secret sorcery, which Queens bestowed, if they so chose, to mortals. Both sexes—although it was generally females who were most receptive to their gifts.

These women were known in my land as Vǫlur. They worshipped at the temples of the Blue Queens, serving as spirit mediums and spellcasters. Wise women—sages, mages, and midwives—who would then choose from among their communities the special boys to serve at the Queen's court.

I was one of those boys. A century afterward, Tórir—may the Norns rot his nethers—was another.

We never questioned it. We dared not. Once in the service of a Queen, your life is forfeit to hers. In taking her blood, your spirit soars beyond the feeble constraints of your body. You are born anew, as a divinity.

As  _hers_.

And you know her by but one word given many tongues.

Urðr. Wurđíz. Weorþan.

 _Wyrd_.

For a Queen's whim is as inexorable as fate itself.  _G_ _ǣ_ _ð_   _āWyrd swāhīo scel!_ Fate goes ever as she must.

So: yes.

Chiropteran Queens were not deposable despots, but forces of nature. They derived this strength not through their intimate relations or lineage through a king, but as movers and shakers in their own right.

And they left no stone unturned or throat unslit to realize their own will, be it through savagery or solipsism, cajolery or coercion.

See, Queens understood the duality of power: hard and soft. The Blue Queen symbolized the latter, with the subtle craft of spirituality. She enslaved humans through their awe of her, conjuring through the ephemera of pomp and pageantry a concrete force-field to protect the realm, a cultural belief-system to shape the day-to-day life of thousands, and thus shape their hearts and minds.

The Red Queen, as you guessed it, preferred the gore-and-guts approach of hard power. Not just warfare and bloodshed, mind you. She understood power-as-process, with strategies and social networks. To protect a realm meant not only warding off enemies but making allies. Power does not negate a support system but  _necessitates_  it.

Kingdoms are not built on solitude. Rome certainly wasn't.

Trust me. I was there.

So what, you wonder, does this have to do with daughters?

_Everything._

A wise ruler must consolidate their kingdom through armies and armistices. But they must also preserve their lineage. Because lineage means  _legitimacy_ , the secondary layer of power. The difference being, where power ensures the ability to act upon your whims, legitimacy sanctifies your  _right_  to act.

And with legitimacy comes the deference required to secure your place, without the hassle of force, or payment, or resistance.  _Sicher ist sicher_.

Daughters, for Queens, guaranteed that their expanding realm remained within their grasp. Princess-Regents served as emissaries for their mothers. They were an extension of her sword-arm abroad. But above all, they were the Queens'  _keepsakes_ , carrying their memories after they themselves had passed on.

I speak not in the language of metaphor, but literalism.

 _Epigenetics_  is new-fangled froofraw in your world. In mine, it is veritable fact. Since the beginning, the lives of Queens have been passed down to their daughters. Practically coded into their DNA. Each little Princess inherits from her mother the gifts of slaughter and song, dark dreams and darker drives, a genetic blueprint strung together from dozens of ancestral threads. Inside her body, she carries the recorded history of her lineage—a Pandora's Box of secrets that lacks only the key.

I should caution: these genetic bundles are a protective mechanism. Deployed purely in extremis: a life-and-death battle, a decade of isolation, a traumatizing event.

Think of Diva's song—beautiful foreign words pouring from her tower. Think of Saya's swordsmanship, and the vengeance wrapped tight as concertina-wire around her heart.

 _Toutefois_! The textlessness of ancient communiques is nothing without context!

Once these collective memories are inherited, they must be steadied by capable hands.

The hands of Queens.

Into her daughters' tiny ears, each Queen imparted the meanings behind ancestral sagas: travails and triumphs, battles and ballads. She explained to her offspring their place in the world, beneath the stars and before the sea, fortifying them against troubled times the way she once strengthened her fortresses against snowfall and siege alike.

Had Saya and Diva's mother—the Blue Queen—survived, she would have bestowed upon her daughters the esoterics befitting princesses. While from their aunt—the Red Queen—they would have gleaned the military prowess traditionally entitled to princelings.

Our girls would have entered adulthood, arm-in-arm, not with the enmity that festers from isolation, but with a society of mothers and aunts and grandmothers behind them, offering their support through the trials of life.

Alas, that was not so.

Biology is the root of one's predispositions. But upbringing is the true determinant of tragedy.

You've witnessed Saya and Diva's upbringing. You know how they've suffered, as much at the hands of wicked men as in their rivalry with one another.

Now one is dead. The other, as we've left her, is finding her way, stumbling without goal or guidance, but nonetheless walking on.

Shall we rejoin her? You've come this far already. Surely you'll survive the remainder of the journey.

You want to know, after all, if  _she_  will…

* * *

Atta Maashiriii

Atsuta, 〒901-2313

Kitanakagusuku-son

Nakagami-gun, 〒901-2313

Okinawa-ken

Saya brushes the moist crumbs of earth off the limestone tomb.

"Hey, Dad," she says. "I'm sorry I've been away so long."

The star-speckled night resonates with wind. The sounds of the cliffside create an echo that is eerie in its emptiness. At this hour, the turtleback tombs are deserted. Saya's ears decrypt the songs of insects and the burrowing of small animals in the dark canopy of trees. An entire ecosystem disturbed by a Chiropteran Queen's arrival.

_What else is new?_

After the fight with Haji at the villa, she'd gotten into her car and started driving. Tears kept gushing periodically into her eyes; it was all she could do to focus on the white lines of the road sliding beneath her wheels.

Her mind kept flickering a byplay of the evening as if on poor film stock: Tórir's strange mismatched eyes, visions of another world, another life, motes of cherry blossoms and the deep thump of blood in Haji's jugular vein, her skyrocketing  _thirst_ …

Too much.

Everything  _too much._

She'd not meant to drive up to the Miyagusuku tombs. Yet she finds herself here anyway. The night-chill creeps through her clothes. She is aching all over, giving off a whiff of sweat and stale sex. She should've showered before taking off. But she hadn't planned on Haji intercepting her at the villa. Hadn't planned on a replay of their interlude beneath the cherry tree, or the byplay of her own repulsive blood lust.

It is still there. But, alone, she needn't act on it.

It's why she didn't tell Haji where she was going. Or text her family. Better for those with lives to get on with them. Hers is dwindling to madness with Diva's loss.

_Diva…_

Saya draws the crystallized rock from her pocket. There is starlight caught in its facets, winking off its red topography.

"You used to love starry nights like these, Dad," she says. "Sometimes we'd go on drives after the sun went down. Remember? Riku would be busy with homework. Kai would be hanging out with his friends. We wouldn't see him until he came stumbling home at two or three in the morning, all scuffed up." She sighs. "You always told me not to worry. He was growing up. And growing up had its phases.  _Nankurunaisa_ , right? It'll all work out."

She strolls down the pathway, her fingers tracing the tall ancient stone. She has always liked this place. It has a strangely maternal air, like a womb that can stow away all the secrets of interminable time and fickle humanity alike.

This is where she began. Where she will return again, when her Long Sleep arrives.

_And when I wake up again?_

_What will I have left?_

Tears fill her eyes. She swipes them away.

"I miss you, Dad," she goes on. "I wish we could talk. I'm not sure how to talk to the others anymore. They only ever tell me the same thing.  _Rest and get better._ But what for? I've done what I set out to do. Riku is gone. Kai has moved on. The girls... they're both wonderful. But I'm not a part of their lives. I'm just visiting for a while. It's the same with Haji."

She hasn't spoken it out loud before. She's circumnavigated the dread for months, like a storm-tossed ship at the edges of a maelstrom.

Now the words spin through her, unmoored and terrifying.

"I'm trying to work past it, Dad," she whispers. "I'm trying to get on with my life. But I keep falling back on memories of the past. I think of Vietnam. I think of you at Yanbaru, all red and broken. Or Riku, after Diva... I think of  _Diva_  the most. This is the life she wanted.  _My_  life. My friends and family and the freedom to be myself. I should be grateful for it. I should be out there making new memories. But—"

_But what's the point?_

She's done her duty. But it hasn't atoned for her past. Not truly. This second chance isn't something she's earned. It is a cosmic cheat won in a shell-game; it could just as easily have been Diva's.

She doesn't deserve to be alive. Not if her sister isn't.

She isn't so sunken into self-pity to trace the thought to its bleakest conclusion. But it makes everything... harder. Harder to wake up, harder to sleep, harder to lose herself in lovemaking, harder to smile for those who love her.

It's why she's come to the family tombs, she realizes. To revisit the days when she was just  _Saya. S_ imple and ordinary, with nothing on her mind but high-jumps and hanging out with Kaori and hurrying home for dinner with Dad and Riku and Kai.

None of which are possible now.

She leans inertly against the stone wall. Tears slide down her face, drying in the snapping wind. Diva's stone is warm in her palm.

"I don't know what I am anymore, Dad." She's had the thought a million times since her Awakening. Now the words beat a tattoo in her skull, reshaping into something else. "I don't know what I'm becoming."

 _Becoming_.

Like a schoolgirl declaring she is studying to become a doctor. But that's not how she means it. She wants to know what sense her own self makes, when she was alive a hundred years ago and will be a hundred years from now, her present as uncertain as her future, whether she is in Okinawa today or floating in the blackness of space tomorrow.

Wherever she goes, there she'll be. Eternally out of sorts.

"Can people be... haunted, Dad?" she whispers. "Like houses full of evil spirits? Remember how you used to say  _Mabuya mabuya muduimisori_  whenever we'd see a car wreck?  _Return my soul to me._ You told me it was because everytime you see something gruesome, your spirit leaps out of your body. So you have to call out until it comes back to you." She swallows. "I wonder... if Diva's spirit crawled into me after I killed her. Maybe that's why I keep seeing her everywhere. Hearing her voice. When she was alive, I could always sense when she was nearby. But now... it's like she's under my skin. Like we're the same person."

She trails off, the craziness of her words echoing in the wind.

Maybe that's all it is? Not spiritual convergence, but plain insanity? Like Diva in her tower, she's become isolated in a cell of her mind. Playing make-believe with figments of delirium.

"Maybe," she whispers, "Haji is right? Maybe I should see a doctor? I can feel myself slipping away. Becoming... something else."

 _How do you know you aren't becoming stronger?_  says a voice inside her.

It is Diva's voice. Yet it is intimate and gentle, not some evil stranger commanding her to slash her wrists or hurt her family. In fact, every time she's heard the Diva-voice, it hasn't meant any harm. It is a cajoling tug at her consciousness: Diva's fingers on her mind's sleeve, inviting her to have a quiet internal conversation, sister to sister.

_Come with me, Saya._

She shakes it off, like a cat shimmying off a spray of water. Shoves Diva's rock into her pocket.

It is time to go home. To find Haji, and apologize for running off. To agree that she needs to see a counselor, and ask Julia to make an appointment.

She isn't possessed by Diva's shade. Or by  _anything_. The dead stay dead.

It is the living who must go on, through the excruciating slog of life.

"I'll be back soon, Dad."

She touches her fingers to her lips and skims them across the tomb. It absorbs the caress the same way it did her words.

A silent promise that she can always return.

At the winding stone stairs, Saya feels the weight of the endless night in her body. A yawn catches her. Maybe she should take a cat-nap in her car? It's a long drive back to the villa. Best to avoid any traffic mishaps.

In her head, Diva snorts,  _Like you'll die if there's a crash._

 _I'd wreck my car,_  Says shoots back.  _Anyway. What do you care? A dose of antipsychotics and you'll be gone for good._

Diva titters.  _That's not how it works, big sister._

She has nearly at the bottom when there is a rustling from the fountain grass. She tenses, ears pricked. A venomous hiss rises into the air. She watches a spade-shaped head peek from the shrubs. Not a lizard or a toad. The shape of a viper's head.

It is a  _habu._ Its scales are patterned light and dark, its eyes a flat unnerving glint of yellow.

Saya freezes. For a moment it is like seeing each of her nightmares piled on top of each other. She half-expects the snake to whisper—

 _Saya_.

But the  _habu_ doesn't utter a word. It glides forward, its scales made glossy by the starlight. ISaya hears it breathing, a low pressurized _ssss ssss ssss_.

Uneasily, Saya steps back. She senses no menace from the thing. It is like any wild animal—curious, opportunistic. Yet the déjà vu it churns up in her is dizzying.

"You wantin' to kill him, or kiss him?"

The voice, speaking at her back, startles her. A female voice, like lush dark smoke. The kind of voice that some women have, a deep timbre of harmonics with the power to either haunt or heal.

Saya whirls.

What she sees makes her relax. It is a  _yuta_. A shamaness. Her skin is pale russet against her milky white kimono, her angular face lined by age and weather. In her late fifties, give or take, yet there is something mischievously youthful in her luminous dark eyes, her imperfectly stifled smile. A widow's peak of fine gray peeks out from under her clean white headwrap, and mottled burn-marks trace the line of her sinewy neck.

Taking a puff on her  _kiseru,_ she exhales a plume of smoke that diffuses into laughter.

" _Tch._  Don't go showin' me such a face. I'd get to thinkin' you kissed him for real."

Him?

The  _habu_. The viper has already slithered into the tall grass. Startled by the woman's arrival, or heralding it?

Saya tries to shake it off. Yet the woman's appearance, which wouldn't have been premonitory in the light of day, strikes her at this hour as unnerving.

Then again, where would a  _yuta_  be but at the tombs? In the Ryukyus, there remains a powerful belief in  _onarigami_ —the idea that the spiritual sphere belongs to women. In the olden times, this dictum allowed Ryukyuan women authority on multiple levels: in families, in communities, in the state during the Kingdom era. The most powerful figures were the  _noro_ —state-sanctioned priestesses. But the  _noro_  were ideologues of a patriarchal system, devoting their powers to the betterment of men.

More dangerous still were the  _noro's_  social shadows: self-declared shamanesses who arose spontaneously into their calling.

Known as  _yuta_ , or  _kaminchuo_ —literally  _kami person_ —a majority of them were widows or divorcees. According to traditional lore, they are destined from birth to hold a special connection with the _kami_. According to more cynical rumor, most are fraudsters, or witches, or lunatics.

Yet, despite a history of persecution dating as far back as the Confucian times, they still wield enormous influence in Okinawan culture.

Saya remembers George describing them as spirit mediums. They were consulted for everything from marriage to illness to exorcism.  _Isha-hanbun, Yuta-hanbun_ , he liked to say. _Depend half on the doctor, half on the yuta,_  a proverb rooted in the belief that it was necessary to understand an affliction's physical and spiritual roots alike.

 _Maybe I should ask for a consultation?_  Saya thinks, not with irony but a chill.

"What's the matter, little star? You lookin' white as rice porridge."

"I-I'm fine." Saya forces a little smile. "I thought you were a ghost."

"Ghost?" This provokes the  _yuta_ into belly-laughter. "Is that what's callin' you from your cozy bed? Angry ancestors whisperin' complaints?"

 _Yes_. "N-No." She gestures behind her. "I was visiting the family tomb."

"At this hour?" The  _yuta_  takes a puff on her pipe, quick as a bite. "Inauspicious for anythin' _but_ ghosts to be visitin.' "

Her patois is pure  _Uchinaguchi_. The same version Dad used to adopt when he'd sing folksy songs, or the twang that comes into Kai's words when he's angry or slurring his speech after too much  _sake_. It fills Saya with a gloomy nostalgia. This is the part of Okinawa, its charm and uniqueness, that she so rarely encounters anymore in the modernized— _Tokyofied_ —concrete jungles of Naha.

She manages a shake of the head. "I'm not a ghost. Just a traveler."

"All ghosts is travelin' someplace,  _saa_?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Wouldn't you?" The  _yuta's_  sharp gaze catches hers, and Saya feels herself skewered. There is something intensely spooky about the other woman's scrutiny. Like a hundred needles making incisions across the surface of her skin. "Got a real ghostly look t'you. What's the matter, little star? You in difficulty?"

"I…" Saya's reflex is denial. With family and strangers alike. But weariness stalls her brain. She gropes for words, fails, and whispers, "Is it so obvious?"

The  _yuta_  snuffs out the beginnings of a smile. "Answer a question with question and we'll be gettin' nowhere. Out with it. What's ailin' you? You prayin' to be rid of a baby?"

"What?  _No_."

"Prayin'  _for_  a baby? Well. Better here'n Kuburabari."

"Kuburabari?"

The  _yuta_  sighs. "Nothin' chills my old bones faster'n a Ryukyu girl forgettin' her roots.  _Kuburabari_! It's a crevice in the cliffs near the Kubura village. It's where women jumped if they was in pup. If they landed on the other side, it meant they'd be havin' strong sons." She spits into the grass. "Lies and foolishness. It was part o' the  _nintozei_ —the taxation system. Taxin' bodies, not monies. Pregnant women was forced to jump so they'd be cullin' the population."

"I didn't know that." Saya bites her lip. "I'm not, um, here for that, though."

"Here for a pinch o' passion? There's  _torikabuto_  growin' near the tombs. Enough to rut up a stampede."

"What's  _torikabuto_?"

The sigh prolongs itself. " _What's torikabuto_ , she asks? It's Mother Root, little star!" She gestures to the patch of cowl-shaped purple flowers growing out of the cracks in the tombs. In the moonlight, their vein-shot petals hold a macabre allure. "Goin' by many names. Monkshood. Devil's Helmet. Wolfsbane."

"Isn't it poisonous?"

"Anythin' is, if abused." Her smile evaporates. "Womenfolk harvest 'em on a full moon. Take 'em to get the womb-blood flowin.' Get  _kweein_  by the next moonrise."

She uses the equivalent of the Japanese  _koeru—_ to get big with child. The dialect is difficult to decode, but the more Saya listens, the easier it becomes to understand.

"Womenfolk use 'em for man difficulty, too." The  _yuta_ rubs her lower-belly. "Pain in the  _fugan_ when he's takin' you? Dryness in the  _hoo_? Now don't go blushin'! Plenty o' girls like you messin' with men you'd as soon be rid of. Fallin' for a string o' sweet words in the ear. Remember:  _Kuchi ganga naa ya yakutatan_. A smooth talker ain't nothin' but trouble."

"It's not that either."

"Ain't it?" The woman eyes Saya cryptically. "Lookin' all  _nachi-akasun_  as you do, I'm thinkin' there's difficulty inside you. In the body and mind." She taps her temple. "Feelin' crowded in there? Somethin' strange windin' through your bones and behind your eyes, sittin' like a face behind your own?"

"I—"

Saya's pulse races faster than her thoughts. She should shake her head, bid a polite farewell and get into her car. But the woman's gaze holds an uncanny gravity that lures her in. It is so different from the way Kai looks at her, dread concealed beneath a veneer of gruffness. So different from Haji's clear-eyed assessment, which probes her depths gently, but always warily.

She is tired, she realizes, of being surrounded by men's questioning gazes. They love her, but their love is becoming a cage. Always scrutinizing her and smothering her and needing her to be  _Okay_. Fearing that she will become a basketcase, a danger, a replica of Diva.

Begging her, without words, to deny one half of herself.

Saya takes a deep breath. "What do you know… about ghosts? About the dead talking to the living?"

The  _yuta_ refills her pipe and sticks it back in her mouth, where it rolls to one side with the artfulness of practice. Her words float out on a pungent cloud. "You havin' trouble with  _majimung_?"

She uses the native term for  _haunter_. Saya hesitates, then shakes her head. "Not  _majimung._ I don't think so."

"What then?"

"I—" Again, she considers fleeing. This is  _crazy_. Kai has always scoffed that  _yuta_  are charlatans. Why is she telling this woman about herself—least of all secrets she can't even disclose to Haji? Yet the words come without forethought. "It's my sister. My dead sister."

"Dead how long?"

"Long. Years now."

"Close, the two o' you?"

"No."

"Try better'n that, little star. Sister wouldn't come knockin' unless she was wantin' to see you. How'd she pass?"

The woman's haggard face is softened in sympathy. The pipe smoke hangs ambiguously between her and Saya. Yet her eyes burn through with extraordinary focus.

The pained pinch in Saya's chest, stoppering the angry bubble of loss for months, breaks open. She dissolves into tears. "She—she's dead. I killed her. It's my fault she—my fault for everything. I'm a bad person. I always have been. I-I tried to fix things but it... I couldn't help. Nothing could help her. She's gone and I... I should be too. I asked to go with her. Why am I still here? I shouldn't be! I  _shouldn't_!"

"Shouldn't." the  _yuta_  echoes quietly. "But you're here, ain't you?"

Saya shakes her head. Her shoulders spasm; she hears herself making awful choking sobs. The deluge of tears is bottomless.

"It's no use. I don't deserve to be here. I don't deserve—"

"Not my place to go tellin' you what you deserve, little star," the  _yuta_  says. "This sister. Tell me 'bout her. No—wait. Lemme tell you."

"Wh-what?"

She lays a hand on Saya's wrist. The other woman's fingers are strong and knobbled. No calluses, but rough splotches of burns that have a texture like sandpaper. Saya half-expects to feel a jolt where their skins touch, some preternatural affirmation of power.

But it is just an ordinary touch. An ordinary woman's fire-coarsened hands.

Tracing Saya's palm, she says, "Close to your age, this sister,  _saa_? More'n close. Twins. You first, she next."

"How—how do you—?"

The woman keeps murmuring, "Like yourself, wasn't she? Strong-willed. Troubled. Surrounded by men who saw to her, but never saw  _her_."

"I—"

"Empty heart. Empty womb. A red sea of sadness." A fog settles into the  _yuta's_  eyes. Her monologue grows increasingly trancelike. "Mmm. I see what you was sayin.' Not close at all, the two of you. Not close—but bound together. Her to you. You to her. Even now she clings to you. Mmmmm." A silky sound thrums in the woman's voicebox, like the beginning of a song. A familiar, terrifying song. "She's clutchin' at you tight. I feel it. Her nails in your skin. Her voice curlin' up and down your body. She's tryin' to warn you."

Fear crawls through the gooseflesh of Saya's body. There is an urgent need to wrench her hand away. To shut the woman up before she goes any further.

But she can't  _move_.

The  _yuta's_  voice drifts in a stupor, somehow untethered from her body. Her eyes shine black and the air around her vibrates like a tuning fork between strikes. "Not just your sister. I see others. Eyes like hers. Eyes like yours. They're talkin' to you from your sister.  _Through_  her. I see their shapes. Blood and bone. Ice and fire. Their bodies burnin' with power. Power to give you, for what lies ahead. If you're brave enough to take it. Brave enough… to become."

 _Become_.

The word strikes Saya like a scimitar.

She tugs at her hand. "Stop—"

The  _yuta_  stays on, her strength absolute. "I see empires fallen. Armies raised. I see a battlefield. Bodies of the dead. I see blood. Yours. His. I see a snake in the grass. In your arms. In your mouth. A snake, but not a snake at all, it's a sign, it's warnin' you—"

" _That's enough_!"

Saya wrenches her arm away.

The  _yuta_  stumbles. Her eyes aren't hers at all: they are a black absence from which blacker shapes seem to spring loose, hissing and slithering, fangs bared. Staring at her, Saya feels herself teetering on the cusp of something vast and dreadful. Knowledge of thousands of lifetimes that will crack her skull apart like eggshell if it pours into her.

Then the  _yuta_  blinks, and the feeling is gone.

"Hmm." Groggily, she scrubs a palm across her eyes. Then: "Saya."

Saya recoils, heartbeat thudding. "Wh-what?"

"Your name. It's Saya, eh?"

"I—"

The  _yuta_  smiles. Winsomely ordinary again, as if the lapse never occurred. "Yu Shimabuku."

"What?"

"What they call me. Yu Shimabuku. Auntie Yu."

She shuffles past Saya, humming tunelessly to herself. Unnerved, Saya watches her go. She half-wants to grab and shake her. Demand to know what just happened. She wants to clutch her own hair and  _scream_ , until the scene pops like a bubble and delivers her back in bed, awakened from a nightmare.

But the stars are luminously bright in the sky. The scent of summer is strong in her nostrils. The  _chig-chig-chig_  of cicadas echoes inside her skull.

She is wide awake.

"Beggin' pardon, little star. No  _shiibai-jaara_  like the forest,  _saa_?"

 _Shiibai-jaara_? Why is she talking about chamber pots?

Saya glances around. The  _yuta_ —Yu Shimabuku, Auntie Yu, whatever she calls herself—squats at the edge of the treeline. Matter-of-factly, she hikes up her kimono. Her urine rustles into the leaves.

Cringing, Saya spins away. The woman pees for a minor eternity, clucking to herself about how it's been years since she's experienced  _nama-shiibai_ —the bladder letting go out of sheer terror.

After a moment, she calls out, "Was your mother one too?"

"Wh-what?"

"A  _monoshiri_?"

Saya frowns. " _Mono...shiri_?"

The other woman sighs exasperatedly over the  _trickle-trickle_  of water. "You're shamin' me, little star.  _Nmarijima nu kutuba wasshii nee kuni n wasshiin._  To forget your native tongue is to forget your motherland. A  _monoshiri!_  One who knows things. A vessel for the  _kami_. Was your mother one?"

"I-I don't know. I never knew my mother."

"Don't be knowin' your mother. Don't be knowin your sister. Is it any wonder there's so much  _gata-gata_  in your skull?" Auntie Yu straightens and shakes down her skirts. The fanfare of sandaled feet on weeds signals her return. "I'm thinkin' your mother was a  _monoshiri_. I'm thinkin' she passed it to you. To your sister  _more'n_  you, as like as not."

Saya shakes her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. My sister... was insane. A monster."

_Just like me._

Auntie Yu scoffs. "Insane. Monster. Don't go usin' words cooked up by scared little men. They've been callin' the  _kaminchuo_  insane for years. My own husband went callin' me the silliest things.  _Crazy woman. Bad wife_. At first, I believed him. Sickly thing, I was. Scared of my life. Scared of myself. Since I was young, I'd heard what others couldn't. I kept thinkin' it was madness creepin' upon me. Like with my mother. Like my grandmother." She relights her pipe. Smoke spirals from her nostrils. "It weren't madness. It was the  _kami-daari._  The curse of the gods. When it happens, there's no fightin' it."

"So... how does it happen?" Saya asks, trying for a passably normal tone, despite her jittery pulse.

The old woman shrugs. "An accident. A death. A stillbirth. For me, it was fire. Fire settin' ablaze my home. Takin' my husband and children." Her voice slows in remembrance. "Can never forget it. The smell. The  _screams_. I lived—but all marked up to always be knowin' what I lost." She waves at the burns mottling her skin. "I was a wreck after the  _nanka_. Wailin' and tearin' at my hair. Talkin'  _furimanuii_ day an' night. Eatin' nothing the villagers brought me.  _Shinkee_ , they called me. The crazy one." She sighs. "Except it weren't craziness. It was the malaise fallin' over me. Punishment for not listenin' to what the  _kami_  were sayin'."

"And what  _were_  they saying?"

"Oh, little star. They're sayin' as many things as people. They're all around us—the bedchamber, the kitchen, the piss-pot. They're scarin' and supervisin', informin' and influencin'. You got the fire  _kami_. The  _fiii nu kang_. The ancestral  _kami_. The  _futuki_. The  _kami_  of the spirit.  _Mabui_." The starlight clings to her features, silver and dust. "Bein' a vessel for the  _kami_... it ain't a simple conversation. You're hearin' not the words but their echoes. They're not always meanin' what you think they do."

Saya's chest is crowded with a wing-beat flutter. Confusion. Dread. "When you touched me. You saw things. What were they?"

Aunti Yu's grin is a rictus: tiny glints of eyes and teeth like dice on tangents. "I more'n saw, little star. I  _felt_. From the first, clappin' eyes on you, I felt. All the trouble'n strife in you. All the pain. Pain like fire, burnin' you inside out. Burnin' anyone fool enough to touch you." Inexpicably, she winks. "Got yourself a man,  _saa_?"

"I—I do."

Poor Haji. She'd taken off in such a rush. What must he have thought?

_What he already knows._

_That I'm crazy._

Auntie Yu chuckles knowingly. "Foolish man. Or brave man. Either o' them two. You brought him with you, without bringin' him."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"You smell of him. Didn't wash yourself off before comin' to the tomb, eh? That's tellin' me you feel safest when he's near." A burst of smoke rolls out with her boisterous laughter. "Don't go blushin' like that. You need t'be more  _amashita-mun_  than _ama-mun,_ if you're wantin' to live. More daredevil than delicacy. Delicacies is only good for gnawin' on. Don't let no man or beast gnaw away at you. Wise women start sharpenin' their own fangs." A sly smile. "You got a good strong pair. Not just for show."

"Wh-what're you—?"

"Sssh. Listen to Auntie Yu. Listen to the  _yuta_  who've been sages and mages and midwives and know what ails man and monster alike. You're a raw gristle of a girl still. Long way to go before bein' crowned anyone's queen. So listen. You need to protect yourself. Fatten up an' sharpen up. Don't go countin' on a man's love to do it. A good shelter love can be. But when you're fightin' to the death it's your own bones carryin' you to victory."

"Fighting to the death?!" Saya's fingers are moist and trembling. She clenches them tight. "What are you—I mean, what did you see? What does it mean? The snakes. My sister. What's  _happening_  to me?"

Auntie Yu sighs, as if Saya hasn't spoken. "You burn so bright, little star. Chewin' holes into yourself with those sparks of temper." She pats Saya's shoulder, the way you stroke a fussy child. "Take broth of lotus root. Every night. It'll cool you down. And be patient. Listen to your body, and to your dreams. Your sister is tryin' to tell you things."

"Tell me  _what_?"

"Oh ho! That's not for me to be sayin'. It's between you and her. Always, you and her." Her fingers smooth Saya's mussed hair. "She wants you ready for when it happens. When he comes. 'Cause he will." Her gaze hardens. "Two-faced brute, that one. Worse than any  _uwabami_. Charmin' the sweet ones an' slitherin' in between their thighs. You mustn't let it happen. You must fight."

"Fight  _what_? For God's sake! What are you  _talking_  about?"

"Shh. Not ready yet. My little star. My  _fushi_. You've a long journey." She unhands Saya's shoulder, with a wistful, motherly abandon. "Come see me when you've become what you're meant to. But be keepin' my advice tucked away until then,  _saa_? Take your kisses lightly, but not your dreams. Remember that snakes are messengers, not monsters, and to see one is to be summoned by the ancestors. Remember that  _Hanakotoba—_ the language of flowers—is as useful an art as poisons." In a different tone, "And if you're tryin' to get big with daughters, let it be sooner not later. You're no  _kwanashi-jooji_. Never will be. Daughters for you will be shields more'n solace. But they'll keep you alive."

Saya blinks. The deluge of information—without sense, without context—makes her head spin. A million questions tremble at the tip of her tongue. But all she can manage is, "My family. Sh-should I tell them about the visions?"

_About whether I'm crazy—or just possessed?_

Auntie Yu shakes her head. "Secrets ain't for sharin', girlie. They're for keepin' and plannin'."

"But—"

"Ssh. Your foot-soldiers is waitin'."

"What?"

The  _yuta_  points with no small amusement. Saya turns.

V and Sachi are at the edge of the stairs. When she spots them, V waves a beefy arm, and starts forward. Sachi stops him. Raised by an Okinawan mother, he knows there are  _utaki_ —manmade shrines—not far from the tombs. At this hour of the night, it is still a widely held belief that it is unlucky to approach the site.

"Saya," he calls. "Haji sent us to, umm, fetch you."

"Turn yourself in quietly!" V booms, mock-threatening. "Any sudden moves, and we'll—"

Saya scowls. "Shoot?"

"Well, no. We'll run and hide. 'Cause that's the best advice for when you blow your top."

"She is not blowing her top," Sachi chides quietly. To Saya, "Please?"

Saya's earlier irritation returns. She doesn't need an entourage to take her home, like an escapee from a loony bin. The thought of being treated as the crisis  _du jour_ —for the dozenth time since her Awakening—is both aggravating and hurtful.

And if she  _is_  unstable, isn't it Haji's fault for goading her into biting him? Is that the kind of temptation she needs, when she trusts herself so little? With  _they_  obviously trust her so little?

"Why did Haji send you two?" she asks. "Is he too busy with fangirls to do it himself?"

V clears his throat. "I guess he was worried you'd impale him like last time."

"I still might."

She isn't one to air dirty laundry about her relationships. Least of all matters between her and Haji. But anger keeps rising from the cracked surface of her exhaustion

Behind her, Auntie Yu clucks her tongue. "Best be gettin' home, girlie."

"But—"

"Go on now." A nudge to her shoulder. "An' remember all I told you. Dreams and daughters. Snakes and sisters. Don't go fearin' none."

 _You haven't told me anything,_  Saya wants to scream.  _I have no idea what's happening._

_To my life._

_To me._

But her legs are already propelling her down the stairs. V and Sachi, well-trained squires, keep an appropriate distance. They don't ask why she came here. But in their faces are watery echoes of the same concern Kai and Haji bestow on her. Like she might unravel into...

Into what?

 _What you're meant to be,_ Diva whispers.

Something seeps into Saya's bones, a dizzying sense of premonition, an overlapping of worlds and lives like a card deck shuffled.

Swallowing, she glances back at the stairs, where Auntie Yu stood.

Like a card pulled up blank, the space is empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some translations of the Okinawan words:
> 
> Hoo: vagina.
> 
> Furimanuii: gibberish/crazy talk.
> 
> Nachi-akasun: gloomy/weepy
> 
> Gata-gata: clamor.
> 
> Kwanashi-jooji: women who get easily pregnant.
> 
> Kuburabari is a real place with a mighty disturbing history. It can be googled for more info on the taxation system and its draconian effects on Ryukyuan villagers. Also, the yuta's crack at Saya not washing off before visiting the tombs is a reminder of how hella disrespectful she's being. At a minimum, ablutions are performed and offerings are brought along on such visits.
> 
> I hope this chapter wasn't too over-the-top and mystical-fristical. Also let me know if there are any errors on the Okinawan lore sprinkled into the chapter. My only friend for the topic is the library and google :|
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Review, pretty please!


	21. Fraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, everybody! :)
> 
> This chapter got done pretty early. We're finally veering into the more supernatural aspects of the story, and Saya's relationships with Diva, and the rest of her family. Behold some bonding between the two Queens (in dreamscape? in the netherworld?) and some nostalgic chitchat between Saya and Kai. Shit will fully hit the fan around ch's 23-24, but in the meantime I'm excited for these filler-ish chapters because I get to dabble with characterization (and foreshadowing!).
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy! Review, pretty please!

 

 _Dreams and daughters_ , Auntie Yu said.  _Snakes and sisters._

_Don't go fearin' none._

Saya is ready, for the first time in weeks, to try. She lets her mind drift by fractions, her heartbeat slowing, her body approaching the stage of hypnogogic sleep—closer to meditation than slumber. It is a state that replicates her one-track intentness during battles. Reaching, deep inside, for that perfect fragment of calm, her thoughts smoothed into nothingness even as her actions are a furor of slaughter.

This isn't slaughter. This is the determination inside herself to approach a challenge with fists raised. To give everything of herself without an iota of fear.

On cue, the change comes as a law of nature, so inexorable that its passage cannot be stopped. By the time Saya closes her eyes, she forgets it is a dream…

_"What are you most afraid of?"_

Diva sits by the stream, resting her arms on her drawn-up knees. Her dress is pure white, of a gauzy fabric that reminds Saya of a wedding veil. It matches the color of her skin, pale and soft except for her cheeks, which are imbued with a delicate bloom of pink, like a single drop of blood fallen into milk.

Saya sits beside her, bare feet in the plashing water. She is close enough to feel her sister's breaths. Each exhale is a plume of steam touching her skin. Alive as the flowing blue of the lake.

 _"Do you know?"_  Diva asks. _"Do you know what you're most afraid to lose?"_

 _"I don't,"_  Saya whispers.

 _"No. Why would you?"_  Diva laughs. It is a strange confluence of melodies: broken glass and winter rainfall.  _"It's hard to choose, when you have so much. Everything I ever wanted."_

_"Diva..."_

_"It's the truth, big sister. Let me have that, at least. It's all I have left."_

Stunned, Saya can't speak. Tears slide from her eyes; she shields her face with her hands so her sister can't see.

It is futile. In reality, in dreams, Diva always sees her for everything she is.

With infinite tenderness, Diva takes Saya's hands. Tugs them away from her face, threading their fingers together. Her hair blows whispery as black cobwebs as she leans close, and her mouth on Saya's forehead, blossoming kisses, is a hot soft flower.

 _"I always forget,"_  Diva says. " _The truth makes you sad. You can only touch it with the tips of your fingers. But if you hold on to it, it burns you."_

_"Diva, I—"_

Her hands, clasped in Diva's, burn too, as if clutching wildfire. Her skin prickles; she thinks of paper as it catches a spark, crackling and curling into ash. She half-expects their linked fingers to ignite.

Nothing happens.

Diva's fingers stay twined with hers, pale as ice, hot as flame. In death, in life, her hands are always the same. Fitting with Saya's perfectly.

A matched pair.

 _"I'm sorry,"_  Saya whispers.  _"I'm sorry for everything that happened to you. I'm sorry I couldn't love you better."_

_"Did you ever try to?"_

Saya swallows a jagged chunk of ice in her throat. There is no way to answer that question. The words wouldn't be a revelation but a koan.

_No. Yes._

_I tried to love you the way I tried to live. Halfway in, halfway out._

Then Diva squeezes her fingers.  _"It doesn't matter now. Being dead isn't so terrible. There's no song or music or food or blood. But there is sleep and dreams and reminiscing and wanting."_

_"How is that... any different from being alive?"_

_"The sleep never breaks. The dreams never fade. Reminiscing is like breathing. And I always, always want. But then, I always wanted when I was alive, too."_

_"Wanted what?"_

Diva smiles. Her teeth are tiny white rows of needles. So much hunger in that smile, and in those blue, blue eyes. As if she wants to bite the world in half, chew it to pieces and swallow it down, licking her lips and kissing her teeth in insatiable relish.

That is what her sister's life has done to her, Saya thinks. Pared her down into nothing but pure desire. She is a tangle of drives, more passion than person, spreading herself out and out into infinity.

 _"It's because I was always starving,"_  Diva says, reading Saya like a blood-red mirror.  _"You had friends and family and sunlight and sweetness to feed all the different parts of you. I had nothing. Nothing but ugly little truths to fill my belly, and long droughts of silence to drink. Someone weaned on those things wants and wants with every heartbeat. And someone who wants that endlessly isn't easy to love. But—"_

_"But what?"_

_"I was always in a place of wanting. Never becoming. Not until now."_

Saya's throat is a knot. She can barely speak.

Then her sister softens _. "That's what you're afraid of, isn't it, Saya? Becoming. You can cut down a hundred of enemies with your sword. Send all my Chevaliers to their deaths. But you don't know how to face the deepest parts of you. You don't know how to step into life, without waiting to die."_

_"I—"_

The tears seep out again, but Saya barely feels them. Her whole body is crumbling on the inside, not a collapse but a rebirthing, like when something old is flattened to make room for something new. An enormous awful space opening up inside her, where she'd once stored her hatred, sharp edges and broken bits cobbled together for the ugly machinery of revenge.

When Diva gathers her in, she doesn't resist. Sobbing, she curls closer. The crown of her head slides against Diva's chin. Her sister nestles her to her chest, until it feels as though they are tucked together in the same womb. Sharing the same blood, the same dreams.

Diva's hair is a silky drag across Saya's skin. She can smell blood caught in the strands. But it smells like truth, like life, something pure and good.

 _"It's too late for me, sister,"_  Diva says.  _"But you have to live in my place. You have to learn patience, the way you learned to swing your sword. How to listen to your body, because it always tells you the truth. How to wear your wants like your skin, not as shameful secrets to hide."_

_"I can't—"_

Saya's eyes are squeezed shut; Diva's body is a flaming pillar against her. It doesn't hurt. She is desperate for the warmth. Desperate to recapture that sense of rightness she'd never recognized except when she'd first stumbled upon her sister's tower, wreathed in blue roses and the magic of her song.

 _"It's too much,"_  she whispers.  _"I keep remembering everything that's broken. Inside. Outside. I keep... remembering you. I'm sorry for what I did... but sorry isn't enough. Living in this world isn't enough."_

 _"It's not,"_  Diva says.  _"But it's more than I had. You'll have to make the best of it. You still have friends and family and sunshine and sweetness. And you have my daughters. You kept them in the world. And now you have to watch over them."_

 _"Watch over?"_  Saya lifts her head, and it is like waking from a trance.  _"Diva. What's coming? Is something going to happen to—?"_

Diva isn't smiling anymore. Her blue eyes magnetize Saya to full attention. A shadow of foreboding at the edges of her gaze, like storm-threatening weather.

_"Keep them safe, Saya."_

_"Diva—"_

_"Use every fraction of me to do it."_

_"Diva, what—?"_

But Diva isn't looking at her anymore. Her eyes drift toward the shimmery blue ribbon of the stream. Saya follows her gaze; an afterimage of the rippling water plays on both their faces.

_"She'll show you the way."_

Diva points. Saya follows the line of her arm to see a snake uncoiling from the water. Dark and glittering, its scales reflecting the shifting glow of the stream. It undulates toward them. Its eyes are blue, astonishingly blue, their color absorbing everything in the forest.

Huddled close to Diva, Saya stares _. "I know that snake..."_

_"You can learn from her. When you're ready."_

_"Ready?"_

_"Ssssh. You're not ready yet, big sister."_  Diva strokes her palms across Saya's face, cradling its shape. Her thumbs smear the drying tears down her cheeks. " _You will be. Soon."_

 _"Soon_." It is a breathless echo: not confusion, but acceptance. Saya stays close, head resting against Diva's shoulder. Soaking in her sister's closeness, her heat. Eyes fixed all the while on the snake.

It stares back, its gaze a burn of endless color.

Waiting.

* * *

"Saya?"

Her eyes snap open.

The dream melts into the present. She is floating in the villa's indoor pool: a star-shaped blot of darkness in the center of phantasmagorical blue. The water's flat surface reminds her of a sheet of ice; it was that same temperature when she'd jumped in a few minutes ago. But it is different now.

Warm as blood.

She lets herself go, not sinking or swimming. Simply adrift. Her mouth is electric with the taste of chlorine; the dappled streaks of light in the pool are hypnotic. She thinks of the plashing water in her dream, the blueness of Diva's eyes. The snake lying in wait.

_You're not ready yet._

The psychic leftovers burn with eerie vividness. Not an ordinary dream. More like surfacing from a memory hole.

"Saya?"

The sound is diffuse and distant. She's dropped like a stone to the bottom of the pool. A twilit world of luminous blue. Hair dances in wisps across her face. Her feet touch the tiles at the bottom and she floats in the uneven gravity of the water.

At peace.

Since her Awakening, the only thing that centers her mind anymore—beyond steaming-hot bowls of noodles and the bracing shimmer of the sea or the blue serenity of the solarium or the warm resonance of her family's laughter—revolves around oblivion. A blank space beyond struggle or duty.

Death, to be honest.

It makes her feel guilty. Because she has what other people can only daydream of: moonlit strolls in the sand, delicious meals and cool linen sheets, a beautiful lover at her beck and call, a family who accept her for everything she is, everything she's ever done.

Yet none of it makes her as happy as secretly conjuring up unbroken verges of nothingness.

"Saya?  _Saya_!"

The voice drags her back into the moment.

Inside her body, undercurrents buffet her into motion. With a kick, she launches herself upward. Her head breaks the surface of the pool with an icy gasp.

She sees Kai standing at the edge. Her brother's entire face is a twist of concern. She realizes she'd been at the bottom of the pool for a disturbingly long time.

Then she realizes she'd leapt in without a stitch of clothing.

" _Kai_!" It is a schoolgirl's squeal of outrage, very different from the Queenliness that arises with Haji. " _Turn your back_!"

"Haji said you'd locked yourself in the basement! How was I supposed to know you were in your birthday suit!?"

" _Turn your back_!"

"All right, all right.  _Jeez_."

He grumbles and obeys, as much for her sake as out of embarrassment.

Stumbling out, Saya hurries to snatch up the robe at the lip of the pool. Her skin is rough with gooseflesh, blotchy with blushes. Yanking the robe on, she glowers at Kai. "You couldn't  _call_  before dropping by?"

"I called your number like a billion times! You never answered!" _I got worried,_ in other words. "You just took off after the concert. Sachi and V say they found you at the family tombs. What the hell's going on?"

"It's nothing."

"The kind of nothing you won't even tell  _Haji_  about?"

"Kai. Drop it." She tries to flex some of the anger from her shoulders. "I just—I needed some alone time."

"Uh huh." His voice is mild, but with blatant undertones of disbelief. "Is that what you were doing in the pool? Drowning-while-alone?"

"I—"

The words catch like rusty nails in her throat. Strength gone from her knees, which tremble so hard she has to sit down on a deck chair before she collapses. A wallop of cold truth.

_I think I was._

Death is the only way to guarantee that Diva is dead too.

Tears rise. She blots the moisture from the edges of her eyelids.

Her family don't need to know this. Or about her strange conversation at the tombs—the  _yuta_  who claimed her sister's spirit was stubbornly clinging to her.

How could they understand? Saya barely comprehends it herself.

She'd shut herself up in the training-room to clear her head. The solarium, overrun with blue roses, offered no respite. Her room, with Diva's rock in the jewelry box, ditto. Haji is in the villa; she can feel him. But that doesn't mean she wants to see him. She still can't believe he'd tried to make her  _bite_  him. As if her own monstrousness isn't already between them like a threat.

As if she needs to be reminded, with each breath, that she is no different from Diva.

_You're not being fair._

_To Haji. To yourself._

Saya admits reluctantly that she is insecure. That insecurity can be sliced open with a cool eye, peeled down to the bare bones of loss and longing. She wants to fit into this world with a  _click_  of rightness. Fit into Haji's life as a friend and a lover, but also as his partner. Someone with agency, and autonomy, and the authenticity of a role.

But she also wants to fit into  _herself_.

That is harder to do. With her Awakening, the territory of her mind is as alien as her surroundings. It is like in the early days of her amnesia: a great mass of forgotten things boiling at the margins of her consciousness.

Waiting for the smallest crack to pour through.

Kai is still talking, nervous chatter lapping at her ears. Because he isn't a Chevalier, attuned to every salty spill or digestive gurgle or pheromonal boost in Saya's body. The opacity can be a relief sometimes.

"...Who floats around naked in a pool, anyway? Haven't you heard of chlorine rash?" He exhales disgustedly. "Man, I remember that summer I first took the twins swimming. They came back covered in these weird red blisters."

Muzzily, Saya lifts her head, "...Blisters?"

"Yeah. I nearly called Red Shield. I was afraid it was some freaky Chiroptera-chicken-pox." A self-deprecating snort. "Just pool folliculitis, turns out. Yumi got over it in a coupla hours. But Yuri ran an ugly-ass fever. Shaking and crying all night. I remember Julia and David had left town by then. I was downstairs, trying to find medicine. Then I heard Yuri stop crying."

"What happened?"

Kai glances around. His smile is wry and sidelong, and Saya realizes he's been aware of her distress all along. Simply sowing seeds of distraction.

"Haji. He'd come in through the upstairs window. Well. Flown in  _uninvited_ , more like. When I got upstairs, he was sitting on the couch. Yuri was clinging to him like a little clip-on koala. Itty bitty fangs in his wrist. Yumi was at the floor by his feet, with her Crash Bandicoot plushie. It was the first time they'd laid eyes on Haji. But they weren't scared of him at all. It was almost like they knew all about him already. And Haji—" The memory provokes Kai into laughter. "I hadn't seen the bastard in five years. But he acted like nothing was weird at all. Just looked me dead in the eye and said:  _Your windows require better locks_. Like he was in town, and had swung by for a visit."

Saya can't help it. She smiles—because the image of a tiny Sayumi and Sayuri clambering over her stoic Chevalier is priceless.

Then again, Haji has always had a patient touch with children. Different from Kai—a boisterous playmate who can speak to them in their own language—yet similar too.

She's never had that talent. Children—like animals—were always wary of her.

Maybe because they sensed something radiating off her that adults had learnt to repress?

"Is that why he decided to stick around?" she manages to ask. "To install better locks on your windows?"

Kai shakes his head. "He didn't settle in Okinawa—in the semi-permanent sense—until twelve years ago. Mostly he was overseas. Hunting Chiropterans with Red Shield. In the early days, I'd go with him. But between the twins, and running Omoro..." His grimace encompasses every fatherly fatigue known to God and Man "By the time I hit forty, I had no time. To eat. To sleep. To  _gripe_  over not eating or sleeping. Monster-slaying and migraines do not a restful lifestyle make."

Saya bites back a smile. In these moments, she is struck by how much he resembles their Dad. But beneath that is something steelier: the folds of ordinariness disguising a gunmetal toughness. A warning that this isn't someone to mess with.

_Is that what Dee sees in him?_

"So, um, what changed?" she asks. "What turned parenting into a joint venture for you and Haji?"

"Less and less Chiropterans. Meaning more time on Haji's hands." Kai stretches with a crick of the spine. His gaze goes past her to the shifting blue shadows of the pool. "A coupla months a year, he'd drop in. Totally out of the blue. At first, it was just to keep tabs on your tomb. Secure the perimeter, evaluate new threats, blah blah. It used to piss me the hell off. But I wasn't gonna turn down the extra help. Yumi and Yuri were a handful. And he had a knack for distracting 'em."

"Distracting them how? Playing cello?"

" _Cello_?" Kai guffaws. "I  _wish_. By age eleven, he'd taught them ten different ways to cheat at poker. And twenty more for throwing  _kunai_  knives. By age fifteen, they were sassing me in languages I couldn't even speak. By seventeen, they were reading stuff that'd give any sane parent conniptions.  _In Search of Lost Time. Story of the Eye. Les Liaisons Something-or-other_."

"... _Les Liaisons Dangereuses_?"

"Whatever. Look—don't get me wrong. In fights, Haji's the fucking paragon of reliability. But the guy is a menace to kidhood."

Saya covers her mouth to stifle unexpected laughter. " _Menace_?"

"Hey, think about it. Your family includes a dude who blows in unannounced at weird hours, like the Prince of Darkness. Usually covered in blood, and carrying blades. He always has gifts in his cello case. He lets you stay up past curfew, to eat ice cream or watch horror-flicks. Takes you rooftop-hopping at night, so you can stargaze or make sandcastles at the beach. Never lectures you, except on posture and table manners." Kai pulls a face, but a twitch to his mouth that suggests he'd enjoyed those days of domestic disorder as much as the twins. "No surprise—the girls adored him. Yuri would latch on to his leg and bawl every time he'd try to leave. Yumi would stow away in his cello case, or hide his shoes. It was crazy. And when he got back, they'd get so excited they'd work themselves into a schedule as nocturnal as his. Squealing around the house wide awake at one in the morning. Stinking up the kitchen with blood-soup recipes, or nearly burning it down with baking experiments."

" _Baking_?"

"Figures he didn't tell you about that." Kai smirks. "He couldn't bake to save his life. Not until Yumi and Yuri showed him the joys of cookie-making."

"God, you're right. He  _is_  a menace."

"Ha ha. Hey—he ever tell you about the time he took the twins to Club Camelot?"

"Club Camelot?"

"It was this fancy-ass Roppongi club. Yumi and Yuri were nineteen, and used to squabble over Haji-time like ferrets in a cage. Haji had just hit it big with the  _Philharmonic_. He took 'em to Tokyo as a treat. The  _Philharmonic_  were performing live, and he had a VIP booth booked out." Kai grins. "From what I hear, it was a nightmare. Yumi and Yuri got soused on champagne with those 24 carot gold flakes. Then they sensed Chiropterans in the crowd and went, um,  _hunting wabbit_. Yumi wrecked the entire men's room taking one down. The other one crashed into the lighting system, shorting it out just as Victoire was revving for her big solo. They say the club went pitch dark and pin-drop quiet. Somewhere in the restroom, you could hear Yumi shrieking,  _Oneesan! Anta kare no chinchikurin na hari mita? Gya!"_

Saya can't help it. She laughs. His high-pitched mimicry—which translates into _Big sis! Did you see that guy's tiny penis? Yuck!—_ sounds exactly like something Yumi would say.

"By the time they left the club," Kai says, "Haji was  _fuming_. Yuri tells me he didn't say a word during the trip, except that his knuckles kept getting whiter and whiter. He flew 'em in personally so I'd be reunited with my demonspawn. I remember sitting out on the veranda with Mao. Haji marched 'em up to me, shook his head, and went,  _Plus jamais_. Mao translated it as—"

" _Never again._ " Saya smiles. "He used to say that when we were at the Zoo. Until the next time I got him into trouble."

"Pushover," Kai snorts. "Yumi and Yuri figured that out real quick. They wheedled and whined until he took 'em back to Tokyo next year. I don't remember any body-counts, so things must've improved." His smile fades. "Of course—it wasn't always shiny funtimes. We were both kind of... messed up in those days."

"What do you mean?"

He nixes the question with a shrug. Not  _I don't want to talk about it,_  so much as  _Nothing you aren't dealing with already_. The deck chair creaks as he settles beside her.

"I was lucky," he admits. "I had the twins to keep me busy. But all Haji had was  _work work work_." His gaze shades. "That's probably why he settled in Okinawa. Sometimes, he just wanted to talk about you. Sometimes I did too. We'd sit at the family tombs. Get hammered—well, me, not him—and reminisce like a bunch of grizzled old war-vets. It was pretty fucking pathetic. But that didn't stop us." He lets off a laugh. But his eyes are somber. "I won't pretend the twins didn't help Haji with the wait. He was so awkward around 'em. But also kind of… in awe. Like he couldn't believe they were real. Spending time with them was almost like relearning how to be human for him. But I also think there wasn't a single moment he didn't miss you."

The scenery quivers as if dipped in aspic. Tears gather unexpectedly in Saya's eyes. She swipes them away. Haji… She'd made him suffer so much in her life. But it hadn't occurred, except in fleeting afterthoughts, that he could suffer tenfold more in her absence.

"He hasn't told me any of this," she whispers.

Kai snorts. "Big shocker."

"I don't think it's his fault, exactly. How do you recount thirty years of wasted time? I've missed too much."

"That can't be helped. But if it wasn't for you, there'd be no memories to begin with."

The words are kind, but the true kindness is in how matter-of-fact he is. That is Kai in a nutshell. Mister Normal.

Her throat aches. But her smile stays in place. "You haven't changed, you know that?"

"Nah. Just grayer and wrinklier."

"I'm serious. Every day since my Awakening, I feel like I've intruded on your life. On Haji's. I keep expecting the people I left behind... to still be the ones I remember." She swallows. "They aren't… but they are. I can't explain it."

"We're the same in the ways that count," Kai says, "We never forgot you."

"I haven't forgotten, either. Everyone who gave their lives to the war. Everyone who was... taken too soon."

George. Ms. Clara. Elizaveta. The Schiff.

_Riku._

The reminder tugs at both of them, a loss so enormous it will never be filled; she feels their little brother's presence as an aching inverse in the space between them. A black hole of grief.

When Kai passes an arm around her, awkwardly, she lets herself fall into the embrace. Her wet hair drips down his shirt.

"You never told the twins," she whispers. "About Riku and Diva, I mean."

"I'm not going to." Kai's voice grinds on itself, the notes both rough and complex. "Joel-san agreed it was a bad idea. We wanted them to have a happy life. But also not to feel they have to be ashamed of who they are. They know the bare bones about Diva. Nothing about... what she did to Riku. If I told them more, they might go on thinking about it. Wondering if they're, I dunno. Bad seeds. That kinda shit messes kids up for life. They're always gonna be different—because they're Chiropterans. But I refuse for them to believe it's a curse."

_Like I always believed._

It is a shuriken in the space between Saya's ribcage. She winces. But Kai's arm stays around her. Same as always: steady as bedrock.

She whispers, "The thing is... Diva didn't start as a bad seed. I've tried for decades to convince myself otherwise. But—she could've been me. And I could've been her. Joel's Diary said they split us up based on the flip of a  _livre_. Can you imagine that?" She flicks her index finger and thumb to mime a coin-toss. "Just a space of a moment. And it changed everything."

She won't tell Kai—like she hasn't told Haji, or anyone—about how she'd snuck the glittery stone of Diva's remains into her dress before the Met detonated. How, in the nights afterward, she'd turned it over and over between her fingers, sick with grief for what had been, and what could have been.

For the first time she could recall, she'd prayed. Prayed for a forgiveness she didn't deserve. She'd prayed for Diva, but also—savagely, selfishly— for herself. She'd prayed for the strength to go on living, when it seemed an affront to enjoy the sunshine, the caring family, the quotidian happiness that encompassed her survival.

Everything her sister would never have.

"Sometimes I wonder... how I can live with that knowledge," she says. "If I even deserve to. There's times—with Haji, with the girls and you—that the guilt goes away. But it always comes back. Maybe it's impossible to think I'll escape it."

Kai is quiet, his thoughts floating off in the susurration of the pool. Then he clears his throat. "For what it's worth, I don't think escape is the point."

"No?"

"We've seen too much. And what we've seen—it's changed us. But we can't flatter ourselves that it's so awful we'll stop living. There's people who've dealt with way worse shit. They keep going. So will we." He meets her eyes. "It's not about escaping, but finding little moments of—I don't know. Becoming, I guess. Becoming something better than what we were."

_Becoming._

The word pings off her nerves in a way that makes her shiver. Wasn't that what the  _yuta_  said?

(Wasn't that what Diva spoke of in her dream?)

She tries a hesitant smile. "A fraction."

Of grace. Of appreciating the small things. The ones that make life tolerable. The ones that, with the past, are twice as precious.

Maybe it's the same for Kai and Dee?

She hesitates a moment. Then: "Kai?"

"Yeah?"

"I-I wanted to ask. Are you, um, taking care of yourself?"

This earns her the upticked eyebrow of  _Wtf?_  "Taking  _care_  of myself?"

"I-I don't mean to pry. Just—you're always taking care of me. And the twins. In the war, you took care of Riku the same way." She ducks her head. "I guess I'm wondering who takes care of  _you_. Are you, um, dating anyone?"

"Dating." Kai's mouth quirks in dry deflection. "Who does  _that_  anymore?"

"I'm just asking. Whether you're happy. I feel like—I dunno. The war ate up the best years of your life. "  _Or I did, not too different from how I stole Haji's time._ She draws a breath. "If there's someone special in your lif… I hope you'll introduce me."

"What brought this on?"

"I just—I want you to be happy." Her throat burns with an impulse to tears. Not of grief, but renunciation. "I want someone to look out for you. I know—because the girls told me—that you'd tried. With different women. After Mao left…"

Kai looks mildly irked. "Don't bring  _that_  up."

"I'm just saying. The past is the past. If there's someone you care about now… someone who wants to be with you…"

She's caught him off-guard, and for a moment it seems as if he might tell her about Dee. Then he laughs, off-kilter. "You trying to set me up with someone?"

"No. Just—"

His arms part, and he rises from the bench. It feels as if their moment of close repose is over.

Then he says, "There is someone..."

"Hm?"

Kai's eyes drift off obliquely. "There  _is_  someone. I promise I'll introduce you. Just a head's up: it'll be weird."

"Why weird?"

She can see him considering how best to answer, without revealing too much of himself, or Dee.

"Big changes always are. Moving closer. Moving apart."

 _Moving on,_  she thinks, but doesn't say.

Kai squeezes her shoulder. The touch calls up so much: years of affection and separation, innocence lost and wisdom found, a family torn to pieces, unmade and then remade, every bittersweet iota of struggle that defined the war itself.

And if circumstances had been different, that struggle might have borne out its own surprises. They wouldn't be brother and sister, but something else entirely. A bond as sweet as  _mochi_ , as safe as sunshine. A nice low-key life, a nice resting-place. Boiled eggs, bullets, catchball, kitchen-work, motorcycles, bickering, laundry detergent, laughter.

No nerve-wracking highs and catastrophic lows. No bites of silence blooming into the taste of pure sweetness. None of what she has with Haji: the wild wings of fantasy underlaid by the stable exoskeleton of pragmatism.

But life is about trade-offs, right?

She stares at Kai, and as she does, she knows that, extraordinary as Kai is, was, and will always remain, he will never be enough for her. Never be the right fit.

No one fits into every dimension of her life so perfectly. Except Haji.

But even there—and here's a thought—there is something missing. A tiny fraction. Yet sometimes it burns like a grain of sand in the eye.

For a moment, Diva's face glows firefly-bright in her mind. Wincing, she shakes it off.

"Kai?"

"What?"

"Thank you. For, um, cheering me up."

He lifts a shoulder, slyly offhanded. "Hey. Haji told me sappy talk of family might do the trick."

" _Did_  he?"

_A menace and a mind-reader._

"He also asked me to tell you food's waiting upstairs."

"I'm not—"  _Liar_ , her stomach gurgles. Flushing, she crosses her arms over her midriff. "Um. Well. I'll be up in a bit."

"There ya go." Kai smiles. But his low-pitched voice conveys an awkward sincerity. "Look. I'm not sure what the deal is right now between you and Haji. But I hope you make up soon."

"Mm."

"The twins and me are gonna head to Makishi Market tomorrow," he adds. "Run some errands. You should come along."

"I don't know…"

"C'mon. They sell that lobster  _sashimi_  you like so much."

"Oh." She hesitates. "Well, maybe…"

"Thatta girl." He ruffles her hair with fraternal vigor. "Anyway. You can't say no, 'cause I already told the twins you'd be there."

" _Kai_."

"And Haji, too." Kai glances toward the stairs, the pose of perfect innocence. "Right, bro?"

Startled, she follows his gaze to the top of the stairs.

Haji is there, watching them with a very peculiar expression. She's seen it before: the subdued absence he'd fall into whenever he'd watch her with Kai and Riku during the war. But he shakes it off at Kai's voice, and nods.

Their eyes catch, and something in Saya softens before she can stop it, a habitual steadying like a breath exhaled.

Then she flashes back to earlier tonight. To the pale stretch of Haji's bared neck, the jugular vein ghostly blue in the moonlight. She sees herself sinking her fangs into him, with an itch of hunger and a simmer of triumph. Except she isn't herself but Diva, her arms thin and white, winding around his shoulders, her laughter cold, vicious, mad...

Cringing, she breaks her gaze.

 _How long will you keep fighting it?_  Diva whispers.

Saya cannot answer. Inside, something uncoils in her belly.

It is like the snake from her dream. It slithers beneath her skin, heavy with promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saya and Haji will meet Tórir in the next installment. Expect intrigue, jealousy, and creepy moments!
> 
> As ever, I'm thrilled and delighted by the feedback y'all leave me! Each comment revs me up to finish this tale, despite its ginormous chapter-count! With luck, we shall see the finish line one day!
> 
> Review, pretty please!


	22. Marketplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! Half slice-of-life, half angst, and plenty of family times! I had loads of fun writing this one! Especially since this and the next chapter are sort of the 'lull' before the disaster-train hits!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! Review, pretty please! :)

Makishi Public Market

Matsuo, 2 Chome−10,

Okinawa-ken, Naha-shi,

Saya wonders if the shopping trip was a good idea.

After last night's melodrama, she'd slept poorly. Her dreams were a dimensionless blur. She can't recall them except for the taste of clotted blood in her mouth. By the time her family arrives, the noonday sun sits at an angle in the sky: hitting her eyes directly, turning the world into a dark blur.

She half-wants to beg off and crawl back in bed. But Sayumi and Sayuri's exuberance cannot be stymied.

They've borrowed one of Red Shield's minivans. Kai is at the wheel, Haji beside him. He'd left her alone all of last night, and in the morning. Even here, he keeps a diplomatic distance. But Saya feels his eyes periodically stray to her in the rearview mirror.

She is in the first tripleseat, hugged between Yumi and Yuri. In the back, Sachi and V sprawl as best as they can between the cooler and supplies. The van, brand new, with a clean odor of leather and air-freshener, has already accumulated the gathering fug of too many people: rinds of passionfruit, candy wrappers, boots, sweat, clashing deodorants. On the radio, crackling music layers the burble of different voices.

A cheerful migraine in progress.

Yumi and Yuri are neck-deep in discussion about some philosophers called Foucault and Lacan. Saya listens with half-an-ear. Yumi is twirling a curl of her hair between her fingers, saying,  _Foucault isn't interested in power, so much as the realization of greater freedom for the self. The limits and possibilities inside the framework that shapes our desires and fears..._  Yuri, her nails drumming in her lap, an ice-blue shade of cyan, says,  _Yes, but the framework is the entire point. Lacan says the only freedom is one that comes at the price of surrender, if not submission, to the framework. It isn't an acceptance of a structure so much as a response to that structure, knowing it's always in place..._

The conversation is too abstract for Saya to follow. As her eyes glaze over, Kai smirks in the mirror. "They were both minors in Western philosophy at the Ryūdai. Near as I can tell, it mostly involved Monty Python reruns and hash."

"They can always switch career-tracks later," Haji says.

"Point. They've got all the time in the world. Baby philosophers in 2037. Nuclear physicists in 2060. Fighting cyborgs in the future or floating around in spacesuits with swords." A beat. " _Man_ , there better not be genetically-modified Chiropterans in Zero-G."

"Hope springs eternal."

Haji's cadences lull Saya like the cool ruffle of the wind, and the purring engine. Something about the way he and Kai trade jabs, laconic versus spitfire, reminds her heartbreakingly of when Riku and Dad were alive: a center of trust hidden beneath layers of mockery.

Yet even with her family, Haji is the odd one out. It is there in his eyes, gazing at the whipping trees with the attention of a one-man retinue. A valued teammate, a family-member once removed, he doesn't fully fit in with the boisterous Miyagusuku clan. His connecting link to them is  _her_.

Guilt surges. Saya thinks back on his words at the concert.  _My life is right here_.

By her side, in support and safekeeping.

Yet she can't recover the feeling of normality between them after the concert. Not while the knowledge (madness? possession?) keeps growing like a tumor inside her.

The whole outing feels like a sham. Playacting normalcy for the people around her, observers and chaperones and...

Family.

Affection catches behind Saya's ribs. Whatever her misgivings, it is good to be with her family. To feel folded into their warmth with a sensation of putting on an old shirt from the drawer.

Haji and her family. It's been a while since she's stopped thinking of them as binary opposites. It is more like having two protective layers: a warm shirt over naked skin.

With Haji, she is always thoroughly known and seen. Always aware of herself, the good and the bad, no matter where she goes. A transparency both scary and freeing. But having her family is like having a dependable layer of protection between herself and the harshness of the world.

_But how long will it last?_

Then Haji glances over at her. Saya flinches, but doesn't look away.

In the golden glow of the sun, his pale skin is more aristocratic than vampiric, like a black-and-white film star. The long lines of his body under dark clothes, the dark tendrils of his hair, the blue eyes that call up every cliché of winter and sky, the idle piano rhythm of his fingers on the window to the bassline of  _Bad Moon Rising_ —all of it tugs something deep inside her.

_Mine, mine, mine._

Then Kai says: "Betcha six-hundred yen they'll start sucking face soon."

Saya blinks.

But he means Sachi and V. They are folding into increasingly-intersecting angles as the trip passes, nearly touching. Sachi has shucked his boots and is sitting yoga-tied, a book facedown in his lap. V, thick legs shifting uncomfortably to find room behind the bench seat, is sharing the bright little screen of his phone, thumbs typing rapidly. They both are bonding over the works of some tattoo artist called Sergey Berlin.  _I mean, I've got a pattern in mind. But it's five grand a session, so I figure I should wait until I know what I'm really after,_  V is muttering. Sachi rolls up his sleeve to display the design on his own arm—stark and black, the swirls of geometry shaped into what Saya realizes is hiragana for  _Sayuri_ —saying _, He threatened to charge extra, if I used Yuri's name in his design. That was umm, chutzpah on his part. I had to convince him it was not some weekend fling I'd regret inking on my body..._

Yuri, following Saya's curious gaze, smiles. "It was nine years ago. We visited Little Tokyo in California, after a mission. I was going to get a matching pattern. But Sachi begged me not to."

"Why?" Saya asks.

"Because there is no way to add to perfection," is Sachi's sigh from the back.

V and Yumi mock-gag audibly. But Sachi and Yuri merely exchange those sweet, close-mouthed smiles that Saya is beginning to associate with them. In a way, it's... charming?... how well-suited they are to each other. Their cool, natural reserve reverts to childish cutesiness whenever they are together

Not to say that V and Yumi appear incompatible, but their vibe is different. More physical. The wildness of new love.

She watches Yumi twist around to fetch a packet of  _takoyaki_  chips from the back. Watches V sneak a hot glance along the dip of her spine, the bare skin under her rucked-up blouse. Grinning, he leans in to whisper something in her ear, nearly inaudible. Yumi laughs, giddy and husky-edged.

"Hey, Kai," she says. "Can you floor it? I, um, need the bathroom."

" _Tch_. I told you not to drink so much soda, Sayumi!"

"Oh c'mon! Look. Makishi Market is right ahead! Hurry up and find a parking spot!"

"I need to pee, too," V says, perfectly straightfaced.

"Vicente, you are  _made_  of bullshit." Kai's grunt is one of rhetorical annoyance. "Since when do Chevaliers need bathroom breaks?"

But he is already speeding up the van.

They pull up near the neon strip of Makishi Market. Kai finesses a parking space at a crowded lot. Spends a minor eternity jerking between drive and reverse as he fits the van  _just so_  between the white stripes—an obsessive-compulsive ritual that makes the twins groan and their Chevaliers guffaw. Evidently this occurs every time Kai parks.

In front, Haji passes Kai a perfectly bland look. The very soul of silence, and yet Kai glowers anyway as he switches off the ignition. Evidently this  _also_  occurs every time Kai parks.

They spill out of the van in noisy excitement. It's been ages since Saya has visited the marketplace. The rich aromas wafting from the stores leave her nearly stoned.

Yumi stretches, catlike, before snatching up V's hand. "B.R.B!"

"Don't have fun without us!" V grins.

They take off none-too-conspicuously in the direction of the cheap per-hour motels dotting the marketplace.

Blinking, Saya glances at the others. Kai grimaces and rubs his temples. Haji's face holds a weary neutrality that telegraphs:  _Not this again_. Yuri and Sachi, arms threaded together, merely shrug.

"If it's any consolation, they won't be long," Yuri says pertly. "Afterward, we can show you some of the nicer stores, Auntie Saya."

"Nicer stores?"

"Mmhmm. Sweets and shellfish. Oil-based perfumes. Teas. Anything you like."

"Um, I don't know..."

"Relax. It'll be fun!"

Before Saya can protest, she and Sachi are beelining toward an outdoor stall, aromatic with mouthwatering  _chawanmushi_ —steamed-egg custard. It is the sort of heavy fare Saya wouldn't ordinarily associate with someone as fussy as Sayuri. Yet she lets Sachi buy her a bowl, and spoon it into her mouth with relish.

Watching them—keeping half-a-mind to the rowdy duo of V and Yumi—Saya thinks: constancy and thrills. These rarely blossom in the same relationship. So you take what matters most to you—short-term, long-term—and try not to let it go.

"Saya?"

A cool touch on her shoulder. She glances up at Haji.

"Wh-What?"

He hesitates. His eyes scope out the crowded marketplace, two blue crosshairs. "You needn't stay long, if you are not up to it."

"It's fine."

Her mind has its own tricks for remembering and forgetting. Their argument at the concert has already been tucked into a corner. The visions and her conversation with the  _yuta_  are harder to forget: a knot of tension pounding away in her temples.

But right now she doesn't want to recall last night, or its after-echoes. Everything lately has been  _Angst Angst Angst_ , her loved-ones relegated to afterthoughts. She'd done the same in the war, and what a dreadful mess that had created.

She wants, since her Awakening, to concentrate on her family.

Including Haji.

Blushing, she touches his arm—a bodily apology without the apology. "Have you, um, been here before?"

Haji's eyebrows lift at the touch, dry but by no means disapproving. "A few times. Sayumi and Sayuri do their shopping here."

"Mm." She dares a smile. "Kai told me about that yesterday. And your cookie-making adventures."

"It was an interesting pastime." Understated amusement buoys his voice.

"How come you never bake  _me_  any cookies?"

"Would you like me to?"

She'd  _like_  a good number of things. Headache grips her temples, but her Chevalier knows a trick of two to alleviate it.

"M-Maybe later," she stammers. "We didn't get to spend much time together at the concert, did we?"

"We did. But..."  _It ended poorly,_  his eyes say.

Shyly, she threads their fingers together. "Well, we have today. Let's try to make the most of it?"

Haji squeezes her hand. The touch calls up all her stymied longing in the van. Her pulse spikes. Of course Haji feels it; his own gaze softens and darkens, dropping from her eyes to her mouth.

It is a prelude to a kiss that never comes, yet somehow better than a kiss.

She can't imagine them doing what V and Yumi do—dashing off at full-pelt toward a motel room. Nor can she imagine them getting a matching set of tattoos, in a lovestruck fit of naivety like Sachi and Yuri. Yet both impulses are there.

Thrills and constancy, she thinks. In Haji, those two things fold together so seamlessly that the difference is meaningless.

Then Kai claps a hand on both their shoulders. "Not to interrupt the eye-fucking—" Saya squawks, and Haji twitches in affront, "—But we're wasting time. The market closes at nine, and I need to get supplies for Omoro. Let's go."

The  _Sakae-cho_ —Naha's old downtown—hasn't changed drastically in the last three decades. The meandering strip of market is still festooned in fairylights, neon signboards and colorful awnings. The streets stink of rotting durian and fish, but also savory aromas of cooking that seize Saya with an almost alcoholic delight.

Deep-fried treats are everywhere:  _tempura, korokke, sata andagi_. Tall green glasses of guava juice. Bowls of jewel-toned sea-grapes. The sidewalks are crowded with jostling movement: native Okinawans toting bundles of groceries, tourists gawking over the merchandise, bicyclists darting between pedestrians. Stalls overspill with tropical fruits and vegetables, their colors psychedelic in the bright lights. Others are strung with pigs' heads, or oil-slicked bodies of ducks, or vibrant catches of lobsters, mussels, parrotfish, amberjack, all laid out on slabs of ice like precious centerpieces.

Saya takes it all in, entranced. "This place is bigger than I remember."

Kai snorts. "It also sells way more touristy trash."

He gestures to the tables heaped with painted  _shisa_  statuettes. Others, their wares nestled in excelsior, boast a garish riot of blown-glass figurines. Pretty frippery for visitors to take home.

 _Kokusaidori Crap_ , Saya remembers George once calling it, in reference to Naha's Main Street, which caters largely to tourists.

Something burns deep in her bones at the scenery: not nostalgia but homecoming. Even during this downpour of disorientation, it is amazing to be surrounded by so much dazzling  _life_.

Just like in the war.

" _Hai tai_!"

Kai glances around. "Huh. That was quick."

"Yeah. The, er, bathroom wasn't too crowded."

Yumi and V, sweaty and smiling, are back. A blood scent overlays them; Yumi has knotted a cheap multicolored scarf from one of the stalls around her neck, and V's collar is buttoned up high despite the humidity. It makes Saya realize, with a jolt, that feeding and fu— _lovemaking_ —go hand-in-hand for them.

It strikes her own straitlaced sensibilities as... not an obscenity but an uneasy reminder.

_"You have not fed from me since your Awakening."_

How can she? Haji is her lover, not a feeding-station. She can't bring herself to relish the most hideous appetites of her Chiropteran nature, or what they say about her. How inextricably they tie her to Diva. And the idea of Haji feeding from  _her_...

_Is it being like Diva that scares you?_

Or is it something else? Banishing weakness, and inhabiting her full self?

Her cheeks burn. She doesn't drop her hand from Haji's. Instead her fingers knot painfully through his. He looks at her curiously, but she can't meet his gaze. Not without giving away that queasy mix of want and withdrawal that seems to define everything she feels about him nowadays.

Then her eyes meet Yumi and Yuri's, and her brittleness smooths into something nearly genuine. "Who's up for picking fabrics? I need a kimono."

* * *

She's forgotten how disorienting marketplaces can be.

The colors swirl around her like a carnival on fast-forward. The fluorescent lights make her skin vibrate. The entire place smells halfway between a reeking trashcan and a sumptuous bento-box.

Yet Saya has forgotten to be wary, in the company of her family, and feels secure enough to cope with the reminders of the war resurfacing.

It won't last. But for the moment she is giddy and nearly free, treating her senses to dollop after dollop of sensory stimuli.

Saymi and Sayuri, clutching her arms on either side, coax her into the heart of the market. Saya allows herself to be led. Haji and Kai trail behind her, empty-handed, followed by Sachi and V, sullenly laden with cloth-wrapped parcels and shopping bags.

The girls have dragged them all through the colorful warrens of Makishi. First to the textiles floor. Beautiful patterns and silky fabrics, the styles ranging from summer to winter. The three Queens buy a matching trio of  _yukatas_  in ice blue, sunset red, and pale peach, the  _obis_  embroidered in white sakura. At a perfume stall, filled with rows of bottles in rainbow shades, they coo like doves over the fragrances and essential-oils, departing with a bagful of goodies that smell like a collision between a spring garden and a Chinese herb shop. From a poky little patisserie, they sample the sweetest, stickiest, softest  _mochi_  on display, giggling at the harried shopkeeper with that half-imperious, half-playful girls-night-out chemistry. At the food court on the second floor, they toast with tiny glasses of chilled  _Awamori_ —a beverage distilled from indica rice—before chasing it down with steaming bowls of porcupine fish soup.

It is, unarguably, the most fun Saya has had since her Awakening. There is an edge of déjà vu: the family outing in Paris, years ago, when Riku was alive.

The vibe Sayumi and Sayuri radiate is the same: an easy warmth that lures everyone else in.

Their conversation with Saya meanders from raunchy to frivolous to serious and back again, not quite intimate because they don't truly know their  _Auntie_  well enough for that, but definitely getting there. Cute new fashions, dance moves, Kurosawa films, politics, their favorite weapons (for Sayuri, it is the  _sai—_ for Sayumi, the  _o-naginata_ ), the proper technique for decapitating Chiropterans, how they met their Chevaliers (for Sayuri, the gun-barrel smoothness of an old partnership transforming into love's prismatic luster—for Sayumi, a catastrophe shot through with miracle, her favorite boytoy ripped apart by a Chiropteran, with she closeby to save him with a slit palm and a kiss), the perfect recipe for blood-soup, the awfulness of too much spare time, the joys of uninterrupted sleep and snacks and sex.

"Never  _Do The Do_  before a big mission," Yuri advises sagely. They are in the electronics section of the market, each with styrofoam cups of sugarcane juice. In the background, Kai, Sachi and V pore excitedly over a heap of bootleg DVDs. Haji keeps solemn watch over the shopping bags they've accrued. "I make Sachi stay on the couch the night before. No good chopping heads off if you're all jelly-legged."

"You're so superstitious, Yuri." Yumi slurps from her straw. "Pre-missions are when the  _quality_  rutting happens. All that bottled-up tension has to go somewhere."

"That tension is best worked off with training. Not that you or V would know  _discipline_  if it smacked you in the face."

"Depends." An eyebrow-quirk. "Are we talking the Sadean flavor?"

"Ha ha. Does V even know how to  _spell_  that word?"

" _Nope_ ," Yumi says cheerfully. "That's how I prefer it. Wasn't it Françoise Sagan who said she liked her men to behave like men? Strong and childish."

"With a ninth-grade reading level."

"He has redeeming qualities."

"A big dick is not a redeeming quality." A beat. "Although I admit it makes up for a lot."

"See? Sachi's got you sprung for the same reason."

"Sachi's got me  _sprung_  because his Montesquieu is as impeccable as his marksmanship."

"That, and you're a sucker for musicians."

Yuri's eyes go dreamy. "It's his hands. I could write a novel on his hands. Sometimes I watch him playing guitar or field-stripping his .300 Win Mag and think—"

"Don't make me gag!"

" _Also_? He's got enough braincells to know pre-battle abstinence is a tactical advantage."

" _Tactical advantage_? What is that a byword for?  _Headassery_?" Yumi sticks out her tongue. "Anyway, why not just go French? Play the Pillow Queen, let him do the work, kick him out of bed after?"

"Fair trade, not free trade, Yumi."

"It's no fun unless it's free once in a while."

"Then your definition of what constitutes a  _relationship_  needs work."

"V doesn't mind. He knows it's for a good cause. And—" a wicked smile, "—the post-battle sex is even better. All those juicy endorphins swimming around. Once that high hits me, I swear I'm up for anything. French, English, Greek..."

"TMI."

"The love going Greek. Human. Chevalier. It doesn't matter."

"Except Chevaliers don't whine about their jobs mid-nookie. Or go into Instant Snore Mode after one round. Or expect you to cook dinner after."

" _Preach_." Laughing, they high-five each other. Then: "Shit. Sorry, Saya. I forgot we're supposed to keep it clean around you."

"Um..."

Saya blushes. Whenever the twins start talking this way, with such blithe frankness, she never knows whether to cover her ears or outright bolt. She wasn't always this bashful; certainly not at the Zoo. Not even during her schoolgirl days in Okinawa, naive, but possessing a healthy dose of curiosity. But afterward, swallowed by the black maw of the war, sex became another non-priority.

Another facet of the world, like relationships, happiness,  _life_ , that wasn't meant for her.

She envies that in the twins: their zest, their carefreeness, their choices. But she's glad for it, too.

_They'll never suffer as Diva and I did._

_Not while I'm alive._

"Okay. Subject change," Yuri says, with either quick perception or her own innate grace. "We've already set the Bechdel Test on fire and peed on the ashes."

Yumi slurps up the dregs through her straw. "Does it count if you're discussing the mechanics more than the men?"

"Afraid so."

" _Damn_. That's just embarrassing."

"You started it."

"Yeah. Well. Learn to swerve a conversation the way you do a dick."

"There you go again..."

This time, despite her burning face, Saya sprays laughter and drops of sugarcane juice everywhere.

They troop haphazardly toward the market's fringes. On a moment's lull, while the girls are distracted by some blown-glass crockery, Saya finds a bench jeweler. Baubles shine and beads shimmer at the entrance. The owner, a sparrow-chested woman puffing a cigarette, looks Saya askance as she steps in.

Nervously, Saya says, "Um. I'd like to have a necklace made."

The owner nods. "Do you have a stone in mind?"

"I do."

And she transfers Diva's red rock—bundled in handkerchief—into the woman's hands.

Twenty minutes later, Saya rejoins the crowd. Her new necklace is snugly hidden beneath the pan collar of her pink dress. The rock, glittering like sucked-on pop rock candy, feels warm as a secret, and as sharp.

She's lost her family in the crush. But it doesn't matter. Between the necklace and the pleasant exercise, her mood has steadied. It's enough to be outdoors, in the richly-textured market.

She drifts past a shaved-ice stall. There, two little girls are examining the technicolor treats behind the refrigerated glass. Both wear matching yellow frocks, their dark hair twisting in braids down their backs. They touch small fingers to the glass longingly, taking bunny-hoppy steps as they peer at the decorative display.

When they catch Saya looking, they giggle and swivel away. After a few seconds, they peek at her, eyes twinkling and smiles shy.

 _Twins_ , Saya thinks, and smiles back.

It's like having a bird's-eye view into Sayumi and Sayuri's childhood. Or maybe into the childhood she and Diva could've had, if…

A shadow falls behind her. Dread twines around her like an electrical cord. The sense of  _Someone's walking on my grave…_

"Miss Saya?"

She jerks. "What—?  _Oh_."

The first thing she sees is the snake. He holds it cradled in a glass jar of irradiated yellow liquid. The snake's skin is a glittering mottle of diamond patterns, black and white. Its teeth are bared mid-bite, the points sharp enough to slice a human hair in two.

Glancing up, the next thing she sees are the man's eyes: a mismatched glint of brown and blue. Beneath the sweep of ghostly eyelashes, they radiate the same bite-sharp intensity.

"Miss Saya?" He smiles with startled pleasure. "Remember me? Tórir. We met at the concert."

"I—"

"How funny to see you here. Are you shopping with your family?"

"Um—"

Again, Saya's gaze flits to the snake. The disembodied dread expands inside her. She thinks of the—dream? vision?—at the pool. Like smudges of tar, Diva's words cling to her mind.

_"You can learn from her. When you're ready."_

"Miss Saya? Are you all right?" Tórir loses some surface cheer. "Forgive me. I should not have snuck up that way."

"It... It's fine." She clears her throat. "I've seen such a big  _habu_ before."

"Hm?" Tórir hefts the jar for closer inspection. "Quite a beauty, isn't she? I have developed a taste for the vintage. Especially with  _Sh_ _ō_ _ch_ _ū_."

"I've never tried that."

"It is exceptional. The one I prefer contains brown sugar. It gives it a smooth but earthy tang."

"I see." The strange sensation—like a cat with its fur bristling—settles down. She dares a smile. "So this is what you meant by 'polymath'? A historian, a philosopher, and a wine connoisseur on the side?"

He cracks a dry laugh. In the bars of butterscotch sunlight falling through the awnings, he is as handsome as at the concert. Where before he'd been impeccably swathed in a dark suit, today his powerful frame is casually concealed beneath a sky-blue buttondown shirt, Chinos, and a pair of sandals too scuffed to be true. A leather satchel, half-zipped and showing the well-thumbed spines of books, is slung from his shoulder.

The collegiate trappings are irrelevant. The two-toned eyes and coppery hair lend him a touch of eternal enchantment. Like something from a Norse myth.

Their gazes meet, and Saya's pulse skips over itself. She is aware of how close his standing. The breeze releases the faint cologney scent of his body. It pulls a thread of memory through her: a greenish highland whiff that reminds her of  _home_.

In the next beat, she shakes it off.

_This better not be a rerun of the concert._

She'd nearly swooned at his feet that time. The fact that it was a mystifying vision didn't make it any less pathetic.

"Connoisseur is too strong a word," Tórir says. "Aficionado, perhaps. One a good day." He gestures to the jar. "I prefer this seller because he owns a  _habu_ farm. The snakes are bred specifically for the wine. Not plucked from the wilds and butchered. I could not abide that. Much as I enjoy a glass of  _habushu_ , I admire the snakes far more."

"Admire?"

"Yes!" Exuberance lights his eyes up in nebulous shades "The  _habu_ is a fascinating creature. Quiet, swift, deadly. Oneyay ofyay ayay indkay!"

"'One of a kind'?" she translates. "How so?"

"Where to start? While cobras and black mambas use nerve poisons, the  _habu's_  venom is hemorrhagenic. It destroys blood vessels and causes internal bleeding." He crooks a brow. "Not that the  _habu_  seeks out trouble. The opposite. It prefers to lie in wait. Thriving in the darkest places." He points at the snake's spade-shaped skull. "There are depressions called pit organs at each side of its head. Extremely sensitive to heat. It uses them to 'see' infra-red radiation. That is how it can zero in on threats, even in complete darkness. Only one other creature possesses such an ability."

"Oh?"

"Bats. In particular the  _Desmodontinae_. The ones known as—"

"Vampire bats," Saya says quietly.

His smile widens at the shared knowledge. "I take it you read the  _National Geographic_  as well?"

"Mm." It's more plausible than the truth. She dips her gaze, her hand going self-consciously to the necklace hidden under her dress. "Okinawa has its share of curious animals."

"None like the  _habu_." His face twists in amusement, eyes crinkling. "Truth be told, I have long admired them. They are the perfect predators.  _Survivors_. Their fangs are like razor syringes. And like syringes, replaceable. If a  _habu_  loses one fang, another grows in its place. Even if it is toothless, it never starves. There are records of them living for years on only water." He pats the jar fondly. "Locals say this vintage offers similar endurance."

His enthusiasm—so different from Haji's reserved refinement—is attractive. Saya tries to match it with a teasing air. "Is that why you're buying it? For those late nights at the hospital?"

"Or late nights in general." He grins lazily. "You know the other reason  _habushu_  is so popular, yes?"

"Other reason?"

"The snake mates for hours at a stretch. Locals recommend it as an aphrodisiac." He chuckles. "Of course, as a physician, I would first prefer to evaluate the patient's underlying physical and psychological issues. But for many, I suppose it is less embarrassing than asking for Cialis at the drugstore."

Saya snuffs out the beginnings of a smile. "Is that why you're buying the wine?"

"Far from it." The strangely-colored orbits of his eyes glow into hers. "The shopkeeper warned me not to overindulge. Otherwise I would… embarrass myself publicly."

"Try not to 'overindulge', then."

"Now where is the fun in that?"

Saya blushes. It shouldn't be such tricky work, flirty chitchat with the opposite sex. Not for a jaded Queen who has survived a century-old war, and seen the spectrum of sin in all its vagaries. Yet this is the second time she's dissolved into schoolgirl stutters with him.

_He has a bad effect on you._

_Like too much snake-wine._

Tempting to blame it on his looks. But it's not so simple. She's known her share of attractive men, yet few of them have exerted such a tactile thrall. Solomon was one. Haji is another. But with both cases—as with Tórir—the quality that attracted her isn't the princely packaging. It's the live-wire energy beneath the calm façade. The sense of a body smoothly inhabiting its skin.

Then why does her spine keep prickling? It is like standing at the edge of a steep cliff—disorienting yet exciting.

"Are your family here also?" Tórir inquires. "And Haji?"

Saya nods. "They've, um. They've run off somewhere."

"Like myself at the concert." He offers a wry apology of a smile. "Forgive me. The arrival of your friend frightened me away."

"Friend?"  _Haji._  She fumbles for a reply. "Th-that's fine. The paparazzi swooped in ten seconds later. You're lucky you weren't trampled."

"Perhaps. But it was a wasted opportunity. If not an autograph, I could have asked for a handshake."

"You still can. If I catch up with them."

Polite irresolution crosses Tórir's face. "No. Please. I would not want to—ah! Careful!"

The twin girls, with cupfuls of tutti-fruity ice cream, skip past him and Saya. One of them stumbles against Tórir. At the same moment, Tórir drops to one knee, catching her by the shoulder, saving her from plopping facedown in the dirt.

Gently, he helps her up. "All right, little one?"

The girl blinks owlishly. Her treat—and knees—are safely unscathed.

"Good." He ruffles her hair. "It would be a shame to waste such tasty sweets."

The little girl stares, too young to offer the Standard Smile for strangers. When Tórir unhands her, she scampers off to join her sister. Together, they disappear into the crowd.

Tórir watches them go with a funny-sad, funny-sweet look. Rising, he dusts off his knee. "Twins, were they not?"

"Mm," Saya nods. "That was a quick save."

"Good reflexes." His gaze shades nostalgically. "I grew up on a fishing village. As a boy, a great deal of my time was spent by the wharf. One had to be spry to man the boats. But also strong enough to steer them toward port in a storm." He smiles. "I sometimes think it is where I got my wanderlust. At night, the horizon was always such a starry promise. I longed to sail off and see the world."

Curiosity stirs through Saya. "And where was 'home'?"

"A place called Gjógv. On the Faroe Islands."

"Oh!" Wasn't that the place Haji mentioned? The one with the— "Puffins?"

He bursts into laughter, and her ears feel roasted with embarrassment. She'd not meant to blurt it out.

"Yes," he wheezes. "Puffins. We had our share. Also seals. And goats. And too many sheep to count."

Saya's eyes drift to the jar of  _habushu_. "No snakes?"

"No. The wrong clime for them. Much too cold." His voice slows with idle speculation. "Or maybe I never saw them. We did have myths about snakes. The tale of Jörmungandr. The world serpent, encircling the seas of the world, biting on his tail."

Saya frowns. "That's a Norse myth, isn't it?"

"Yes. Given the Froyar's unique location, we've had our share of... cross-fertilization. I believe it was in 825 when the earliest Vikings settled at our shores. They brought their lore with them." He quirks a brow. "You know, the symbolism of Jörmungandr is remarkably similar to the cycle of  _samsara_  in the Vedic texts of India. Or to the  _habu_ in Okinawa. They signify a universal ouroboros. Destructive on the one hand, but essential to the regenerative cycle of nature on the other. An eternal life force. Like—"

"Immortality," Saya says.

" _Yes_." His eyes brighten. A tiny spark of attraction. "You are full of surprises, Saya."

She fumbles with her necklace. It seems indecent, suddenly, to be here. To let him gaze at her that way.

She steps back. "I just read the National Geographic. Same as you."

Tórir chuckles wistfully. But he seems to sense their banter is at an end. "A useful pastime, if nothing else." He performs an elaborate bow. The movement underscores the serpentine smoothness of his body-language—and fills her with surreal slither of déjà vu. "I will let you return to your family, yes?"

"Y-Yeah." The sudden gabble of the marketplace startles her. She realizes, in the ease of conversation with this man, she'd forgotten where she was. "I hope I haven't lost them. Or—"

"Your wallet."

She and Tórir whirl.

Haji is there, sunlight making a golden umbra around his streamlined shape.

"Haji!" Saya straightens her dress, which needs no straightening. "I was looking for you!"

"As was I." He holds out a pair of wallets: one a sleek eelskin in black, the other pink-and-purple with flower prints. "You should take these."

"That is mine!" Tórir exclaims, reaching for the eelskin case. "Where on earth did you—?"

"The twin girls," Haji says. "They are notorious in this marketplace."

"'Notorious'?"

"For pickpocketing. They brush against any foreigner in the crowd. Pretend to stumble, then swipe his pocket for valuables."

"God." Tórir shakes his head. "I did not even notice. How did you catch them?"

"I saw them bump into you." He returns Tórir 's wallet with a robotic courtesy. "A brief chat convinced them to return it."

"Where are they now?"

"I let them go." His eyes flick from Saya to Tórir. "I am sure they had reasons for stealing from another."

Saya's cheeks blaze. She realizes that under her Chevalier's shield of calm simmers a very real hostility. It catches her off-guard. Haji is protective by default. But that is always against bodily threats. This is the first time she's seen him cast such a cool eye of dislike at another man.

(Or is it? He'd always gotten combative with Solomon, too. Even with Kai, there were flashes of passive-aggressive vitriol in the early days.)

It should irritate her. Instead, she feels a gut-wrenching shame.

_Is this how he felt when I got angry with him about Victoire?_

"Haji. Th-this is Mr. Tórir," she stammers. "I met him at the concert. He's a fan of your work. Especially the, um,  _Fantaisie Impromptu_."

"And now I owe you for my wallet." Tórir offers a hand. "I cannot thank you enough."

"No need."

They shake hands civilly. Yet the tension is palpable, a brewing storm of cold front against hot. Tórir's eyes glint at a wicked wattage, as if he's aware how the scene looks and not at all sorry for it. Haji's own look is icily bland, reading the scene with no knowledge, but lethal accuracy. They are both, Saya can't help but think, remarkable-looking men. But where Tórir's attractions are a sinuous, spicy-hot potency, Haji's are a resolute, unnerving stillness. Like a wolf facing off against a viper.

Clearing her throat, she says, "It was nice running into you, Mr. Tórir."

"Please. Just Tórir." He smiles sidelong. The side only she can see. "And the pleasure was all mine. Utbay iyay an'tcay etlay ouyay ogay handemptyay."

Haji decodes the sentence before she can. "You cannot let us go 'empty-handed'?"

"Not when you saved my wallet from the clutches of nefarious thieves!" Rummaging in his satchel, Tórir offers Saya a book. "Please accept this as a token of thanks."

Saya frowns at the title. " _Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved_?"

"I picked it up to decode the Farsi. But it has English translations as well. It is full of lessons. On life. And love."

"Um. Thank you." Tentatively, she takes the book. Their fingers touch, and her pulse skitters. There it is again—that tiny flame of familiarity. She is intensely aware of Tórir's eyes on hers. And of Haji beside her, his expression as emotionless as the arctic blue gaze cataloging their exchange.

Tórir steps back. "It was wonderful to see you, Saya." Then, to Haji. "And you, great Bragi."

Her Chevalier nods, but offers no reaction. His face is smooth as glass.

Turning, Tórir drifts into the crowd.

"Bragi," Saya says. "That's—"

"The Norse God of music." Haji's eyes follow Tórir's retreating shape. "I have seen him before."

"Bragi?"

"Tórir. He was at the boutique where you purchased your pink gown."

"Y-Yeah. He mentioned that at the concert." She forces a smile, trying to cajole him into a lighter mood. "Probably trying to get your autograph."

"Hm."

Haji doesn't look at her. He is still holding her wallet. Without comment he offers it to her. Perfectly polite and absolutely not there.

"Shall we go?"

"Haji—"

"The others are waiting at the parking-lot."

Saya's stomach sinks. She wants to tell him that the scene he'd walked in on wasn't what it looked like. Except her pheromones light up the air like fireflies. Whatever Haji's preternatural faculties can sense about her when she's in the mood, is also open when she's attracted to another man.

 _TMI_ , as her nieces say.

With a Chevalier, that isn't a choice, but a default slide into disaster.

* * *

When she and Haji rejoin the others in the parking-lot, the stores are closing: a fanfare of rattling shutters and dimming lights. Buoyed by an air of buzzed exhaustion, the group piles into the van, laden with shopping bags. The drive back to Naminoue Beach is barely forty minutes. Kai catches every green light, he and the twins trading jibes by rote.

"Don't know why you girls need all those fancy clothes. Everything gets bloodstained anyway."

"Lagerfeld says clothes are a language that interpret reality, Kai."

"Lagerfeld? What the hell is that? An ale house?"

In the back, the awkwardness between Saya and Haji feels like a third presence. Tórir's book,  _Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved_ , rests in her hands.

Numbly, she skims its pages, until the crackle of tires on sand signals their destination.

At the beach, her family haul out their booty. Dark sky, starless and smooth, stretches above. Wind blows through the sago palms; there is a bracing salt spray in the air. From the cooler, Sachi and V crack open the last two icy cans of Orion Bīru.

Snatching one away— _Age before immortality, guys_ —Kai sprawls on the hood of the van. Saya climbs up beside him. The metal is toasty warm, making her aware of her own hot skin. Her blood buzzes with recessive guilt.

From the corner of her eye, she can see Haji dispensing the twins' belongings between them. The two girls are squabbling over a pair of shoes, each insisting  _she_ saw them first. Haji smooths out the argument, in that patient way of his.

"—the fuck, Yuri?!" Yumi complains, "You don't even  _like_  creepers!"

Yuri doesn't budge. "I plan to wear them with my cocktail dress to Michiko's party."

"Maaan, that's not until next Tuesday! I was gonna break them in for the Marines'  _biichii paatii_  tomorrow! Maybe even hollow 'em out and stick in extra C-4 for a mission!"

"That is a terrible waste of C-4  _and_  shoes!"

"My C-4! My shoes!"

"Like hell!"

Quietly, Haji says, "Why not purchase a second pair from the market tomorrow?"

Yumi pouts, "It's the principle of the thing! I've only got, like, two good pairs of boots! Yuri has a whole closet-full of Louboutins and Blahniks and Blahboutinwhatevers!"

Yuri examines her immaculate fingernails. "Hardly my fault you go through shoes faster than undies."

"Low-blow, bitch!"

"To paraphrase you: Learn to take the truth the way you take a dick."

Haji exhales. "Sayumi. Sayuri.  _Please_."

There is a catty silence. Then, Yuri relents, "I suppose she can borrow them for the barbecue."

"Hell yeah!" Yumi whoops. "Extra space for my explosives!"

"You will  _not_  stick C-4 into them!"

"Aw maaaan. Why not?"

"I said borrow—not deface!"

"I was only gonna do the soles! Not like I'm borrowing Sachi to carve a smiley face on his butt!"

"I'd forgive the latter. Not the former."

Yumi returns to her original gambit. "But you don't even  _like_  creepers!"

"Ladies." Haji lifts the shoebox overhead. "I am going to toss these in the ocean."

Yumi and Yuri's shrill  _Noooos_  jangle in the air. Yuri snatches the box away, cradling it to her chest. Yumi stews with crossed arms and a thunderous moue. Under her breath, she mutters, "I'll just stick the C-4 in her bento-box."

Haji shakes his head. "Sayumi."

Saya expects the girl to huff. But to her surprise, she relents without further protest, and goes on tip-toe for a goodnight kiss—a noisy peck on the sharp point of Haji's cheek. Yuri's kiss is sweeter and more proprietary. Evidently she must, even here, lay victorious claim to whatever her sister values.

They remind Saya of a little wolf-pack, the girls vying against each other with little nudges and pokes their claim to one of Haji's arms. And Haji, watching them with low-key indulgence. Like they are quizzical creatures beyond his ken. But also—mysteriously, miraculously—all his.

_Maybe he wishes they were._

It hits to her for the first time, a boot in the gut. Wincing, she forces the idea away.

Haji would undoubtedly make a fine father. But she is the worst candidate for motherhood, and it doesn't matter anyway.

Nothing matters but her family.

She smiles when Haji lays a light palm on Yuri's forehead. "Hay fever?"

"Um. No-o-o."

"Are you certain? You seem warmish."

Yumi smiles slyly. "It's the creepers. Bet she's allergic."

Yuri aims a smart kick at her sister's shin. Haji sighs but otherwise lets the exchange pass.

From the van, FM Koza, 76.1, is playing a medley of 'Classic Hits.' It disorients Saya; she used to sing along to those catchy numbers with Dad, as a high schooler. She smiles faintly as a song—remixed into drumbeats and piano in all the scintillating pathos of New-Age Jazz—floats in.

"Oh  _yeah_. That's my jam! Turn it up!"

Yumi does a few flapper-esque steps: waving her hands, rolling her knees, all her wild curls falling around her beaming face.

V guffaws, mockery meeting affection. " _Lame_!"

"You've got no taste, V." Yuri leaps in with a swish of pleated skirts. Catching her sister's hand, their shoe-squabble already forgotten, she swings her in. Soon they are weaving effortlessly in and out of each other's orbit, palms linked and heels kicking.

Kai chuckles. "You're like something out of that old movie. What was it? The Great Gutsy?"

"The Great Gatsby," Haji says.

"Whatever."

_Don't go 'round tonight_   
_It's bound to take your life_   
_There's a bad moon on the rise_

Giggling, Saya watches V trip into the girls' circle. Awkward at first, but then he is following their moves along as intently as if in a contest. Sachi, leaning lazily against the driver's door, flicks on the high beams.

"Get your wiggle on."

The three dancers swoon in the spotlight of headlamps, striking classic Charlestron poses, arms swinging and legs kicking, a hilariously exaggerated floor-show. By the time the trumpet riffs have swung into the rowdy chorus, they have devolved into freestyle steps in no way suited to the music. V is busting air-guitar moves with strumming fret-fingers and spastic head-banging. Yumi throws in something from an 80s Madonna video, voguing with a pizzazz that is half liquid, half lightning. Yuri has dragged Sachi into the circle. Their rendition of  _The Robot_ dissolves Saya into stitches.

"You're all crazy!" Kai shouts.

The twins, inspired by their captive audience, are now reeling off a performance that perfectly captures the grace of ballet with the kinetic force of b-boying.

Saya's giggles fade into a hush as first Yumi, then Yuri, lift their arms over their heads, sinuously, like swaying cobras. Their fingers lace together, then lock tight; Yumi flings herself up into the air, rolling and somersaulting—a swan-dive in reverse—to do a handstand on her sister's palms.

For a breathtaking moment, they remain balanced in that pose, two bodies perpendicular to each other, without even the line of gravity to intersect them. Then Yumi scissors her legs and launches into a crazy whirlgig. Spinning into the sky, up then down, catching the steady hands of her sister again. They layer the demonstration, twists and torques, sometimes switching places, sometimes resuming them, sprightly bodies leaping with equal ease from the sand to the sky.

Saya stares, transfixed and strangely moved.

The trust between the girls in undeniable. But what gets her are their grins: identical curls of pure glee.

As if each will always be there to catch the other when she falls.

Saya had missed that certainty—and so much more—with Diva. Missed dancing with her. Swimming with her. Eating with her. Playing with her.

Missed ... her.

On reflex, her fingers go to her necklace. A newly-minted memento of what can never be.

For the grand finale, Yumi swings herself into the air again, poised on the patient prop of Yuri's palms. Then both girls  _pivot_ , in opposite directions, a movement so dreamlike yet so charged with momentum it reminds Saya of two cyclones unraveling North and South. Their hands break free; Yuri swirls like quicksilver across the sand, her dress billowing around her legs, while Yumi hangs suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, arms and legs outspread, a star mid-tumble. Then she tucks herself into a ball, spinning in triple-time, before landing soft as a feather on the ground to underscore the swanlike sweep of her sister's curtsy.

The last chord of the song thrums into stillness.

In the broken-open quiet, Saya erupts into applause. " _Bravo_!"

Yumi and Yuri collapse on the sand, cackling madly. Yumi aims a V-for-victory sign into the sky.

"Thank you! We're here from Saturday till eternity!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad Moon Rising - Jazz version by New Orleans Party Asylum House of the Rising Sun.
> 
> Say it ten times faster.
> 
> Expect some (or lots?) of smut in the next chapter! Leave shiny reviews and I may get finished with it faster. Just sayin' :)


	23. Fantaisie Impromptu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzaah! My internet stopped being crap long enough for me to post!
> 
> Smut ahead. All minors beware. I should also note it's the least 'vanilla' smut I've written for this pairing - but nothing truly traumatic or transgressive (and hilariously it's in missionary position). I always laugh at labels like 'vanilla' and 'kink' because of the implication that there is 1) something either aberrant/exciting to the latter and subsequently default/boring about the former, and 2) the idea that power dynamics, and their corollaries of domination and submission, are somehow absent from 'normal' sex, and recognizable only through use of whips, chains, other paraphernalia, which: lmfao.
> 
> Tirade aside, I hope y'all enjoy! Feedback is the engine that powers this fic, so if there's something you like/dislike, don't hesitate to let me know!
> 
> Now on with the smut!

Saya had never gone swimming with Diva.

Of course, there were a thousand things she had never done with Diva, beyond chasing her sister every waking moment of her life, the way a drowner chases for air.

She had certainly never imagined doing what they are doing now: running hand-in-hand along the glittering lip of the lake, their bare feet kicking up swirls of snow. A fog hangs across the gleaming sheet of the water, deepening into milky groundmist at the tree line. The forest is a winter dreamland, dusted as if with powdered sugar.

But Saya isn't cold.

 _"Come on, sister!"_  Diva coaxes. " _Jump into the water with me!"_

_"It'll be freezing!"_

_"So? We'll feel right at home!"_

Next they both are running—quick as quicksilver—through the lacing of snow, to dive into the heart of the lake.

Saya gasps at the blinding shock of it. The water shoots straight up her nose. Fills her lungs like an icy radiance, a sweet mineral tang spreading in the back of her throat. Then she and Diva are cresting the surface, spitting out water, sinuses throbbing and laughter resonant.

 _"See?"_  Diva giggles _. "There's nothing to it! Just remember the trick. All the way in—without stopping."_

 _"I-I didn't know,"_  Saya says.  _"I didn't think I could."_

_"If you keep thinking, you never will at all."_

Diva smiles. She smells electric and alluringly cool. But her arms are hot as they pass around Saya.

The waning moon makes a zigzag path across the water. Their two bodies, breaking the glittering surface, are like something from a fairytale. Mermaids basking in the night-glow.

 _"I wanted to swim with you,"_  Diva says.  _"After you set me free from my tower. Eat with you. Dance with you. But I never could."_

Saya's throat cramps. She has to wring the words out from deep in her muscles _. "I'm sorry. It was all messed up in those days. We... were all messed up."_

_"I know."_

Diva floats back, facing her, tethered by nothing but their interlaced fingers. The moonlight makes the tips of her bare shoulders glow, turning her skin into the pure white of a marble bust.

 _"Things are always messed up, though,"_  she says.  _"I remember. Every time I opened my eyes, there was a war. Among the humans. Between us. So much noise everywhere. But that didn't mean I had to be lost in it. It was better to make a quiet space inside myself. That way, I would never lose_ me _."_

Saya nods, letting the words lap at her like the coolness of the lake.

In her waking hours, remembering Diva, her mind is full of perils. But in this moment everything is pure and simple. The night is theirs, and the lake is theirs, with their two dark heads drifting side by side on its shimmery surface, nothing to stop their joy from going forward.

 _"You need to make a space inside yourself too, Saya_ ," Diva says.  _"It mustn't be a locked box. Otherwise you'll become trapped by it. Yours should be like music. Something you carry with you everywhere, keeping the notes deep inside. You can let it sweeten or slow or speed up to suit your needs. But the center should always be yours."_

_"Always... mine?"_

_"That way you'll always know yourself. When your Chevalier is inside you, and you're afraid you'll break to pieces instead of being made whole. When the battle rages around you, and you can't tell yourself apart from the screaming and the blood and that sharp, sharp sword you secretly love more than sleep or sunlight or sex."_

Saya's cheeks burn. She tries to dip her gaze away. But Diva is smiling at her, soft and enigmatic, her words like riddles that can only be unraveled here.

 _"To know yourself is to know exactly what you're giving, and what you stand to lose, Saya. That way you'll never disappear, or be shaped by someone else's dreams of you."_  Diva gazes unfocusedly at the overlapping ripples of moonlight across the lake _. "My Chevaliers tried to shape me to their dreams. I never let them. I held tight to my own."_

_"Your daughters."_

The words fall from Saya's lips. It is as if she is absorbing something that she hadn't before. Old knowledge transmuting into new wisdom, something enormous and powerful and mysterious. Something more than rivalries or wars or betrayals, but the endless stretch of time that spreads beyond them like the lake and the stars.

 _"My daughters,"_  Diva agrees.  _"All I ever wanted. I'm sad I couldn't watch them grow. But I'm happy they'll never grow into we became."_

 _"Never."_ Saya's fingers tighten on her sister's _. "I'll make sure of it."_

_"I know you will."_

_"I won't let anyone shape their lives, either. They'll be free the way neither of us could be."_

_"We're finally free too, sister. In our own ways."_

They both drift together across the lake. Saya can feel Diva's pulse beating in her palms. It matches the rhythmic stirring of the water, and the slow sawing of hers and Diva's breaths. Two people in the same place, at the same time. Sharing the same heart.

Beneath the surface, something roughly swishes along her flank.

Saya jerks _. "What was that—?"_

 _"Oh? It's just her."_  The snake, Saya realizes.  _"She's waiting for you."_

_"What?"_

Diva shrugs prettily, her hair dripping in inky tangles around her face.  _"Forget about it. It's not time yet."_

_"Not time for what?"_

Diva doesn't answer.

In graceful strokes, she swims to the middle of the lake. Glowing and amorphous, her body seems a part of the moonlit water, and as unfathomable as it.

But her warm fingers are still threaded with Saya's. Her eyes are blue blossoms of pure love.

 _"Don't worry, big sister,"_  she says.  _"I won't let go. Not until you're ready."_

* * *

Saya's eyes flutter open.

Dregs of the dream cling to her. Her body is a languid starfish across the rug. Haji is plucking a book from her fingers.

She'd drifted off by the grand piano, reading  _Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved._ The villa, long-emptied of company, holds an unnatural echo. Decades of coasting continents, just her and Haji—yet their privacy always feels strangely decadent.

Haji is a dark shape limned in the brightness of the moon. He stirs through the book's pages with a fingertip.

 _"In the driest whitest stretch/of pain's infinite desert,"_ he says. _"I lost my sanity/and found/this rose."_

It sounds like a quote.

"I, um. Didn't get that far." She tries to read his mood in the dark, fails, and whispers, "Are you still angry?"

"Angry?"

"About before?" She reaches for him, her hands like two quinquefoliate night-flowers. "Tórir is just someone I met. I'm sorry if I—"

"Saya."

"Mm?"

"You know I cannot stay angry with you beyond a moment."

Tenderness shows in his gaze, and in the easy way he melts across her, going from a looming pillar of darkness to a heavy spill of coolness.

Relief gusts through Saya. She circles him in, and sighs as he drops a kiss to her forehead.

It is still stunning, how effortless the fit of their bodies is. She's never known before that she would like a physique composed of pure ivory and bone, or that the scent of rosin overlaying the musk of clean skin would hold such a visceral pull for her, or that the hands she'd want on her body would be so specific: one ghostly pale and sword-grip strong, the other monstrously mismatched yet exquisitely gentle.

Haji's mouth, on hers, is cool as water. But his tongue, tracing past her lips, tastes of something else. Dark and hot and seeping desire into her extremities like a welling of blood.

"Mmmm. Haji?"

"Hm?"

"I  _am_  sorry. About before. Yelling at you about Victoire. Running away after the concert. Then the... thing at the market. I shouldn't have—"

"Ssh." He kisses her eyelids. "That is nothing to be sorry for."

"No?"

"The issue is mine. Not yours." Regret sloughs through the dark river of his voice. "I should have the patience to let you grow, Saya. Let you experience what you could not in the war. Right now you may think I am enough. But I want you to know that—"

Saya touches a hand to his mouth. "Don't."

He kisses her fingers, wistful, wanting. "Forgive me. But we should discuss it. I do not know how long I can make you happy. But I will never keep you against your will, either." His eyes are darkly luminous. "I want you to  _live_ , Saya. If that means with another man, then—"

Saya stops him again. "I  _told_  you not to bring that up. Another man won't 'fix' me. And I'm not with you just until I'm 'fixed.' I'm here because I chose  _you_."

Sighing, Haji drops his forehead to hers. His cool breath fans across her face. "I cannot tell you... how grateful that makes me. But I do not want secrets building between us, because you want someone new. Your happiness is what matters. With or without me."

Her lips tic—either up or down, she isn't sure. "Do you think I'd leave you that easily?"

"I think you deserve the freedom to choose."

Saya's eyes fizzle with tears. It is maddening when he gets this way. But that is how Haji is. Always placing his own needs second to hers. Always taking any crumb she manages to offer him, and giving himself to it like a starved man to a feast. Having such a wellspring of love at her fingertips... it's made her careless, the way people become when something so rare is so effortlessly given.

But it also reminds her what truly matters. Solomon, Tórir... they are lessons in the fact that she'll meet men whom she's attracted to. Wildfire crushes, childish fantasies—but not reliable partners. Not like Haji, who fits an indefinable niche in her life. A space between thrill and trust that stirs in her longings far beyond her long sexual deprivation.

No one else has that sense of rightness. He's become, for her, the touchstone of  _life_.

Threading her arms around his neck, she traces his lips with hers. "You're wrong."

"Hm?"

"You're wrong if you think I'd choose anyone else. No one suits me like you do. No one's so patient. Even when I know it can't be easy."

"It is not a matter of easy or difficult. You are my reason to go on."

"Even when I'm…"  _Crazy_ , "weird?"

"You are doing the best you can."

Is she? Or is she simply wasting this second chance Diva would've killed for?

_Scratch that._

_This second chance I_ killed _Diva for._

She flinches. Beneath her blouse, the necklace with Diva's rock absorbs the cached flutter of her heart. She wants to tell him about her meeting with the  _yuta_. About Diva, and the dreams. But some instinct tightens its grip on the secret. It's not because she doesn't trust him. It's because she needs  _him_  to trust  _her_. To believe that she is fine. That the changes inside her aren't a lapse into insanity—but the first signs of healing.

_Aren't they?_

Then Haji kisses that spot beneath her ear, that seems connected straight to her groin. She shivers. "I'm... I'm not..."

"Hm?"

"I'm not doing my best. You deserve more. Better."

"Saya..."

"I mean it." She darkens, her eyes measuring his own. "I'm figuring things out. Same as you. But the least I can do is give you the benefit of the doubt. You do it for me often enough. Sometimes, it makes me wonder if—"

Misgiving dogs her. Haji has been bolstering her since the war. Keeping her strong until she completes her duty. But what does  _he_  want? It never seems to go beyond her happiness. But whatever makes  _him_  happy... is that in her power to give?

Peace. Purpose. Place.

Something beyond the superficial pleasures that music and travel and sex can offer.

Shyly, she says, "If things were different, you could have had an ordinary life. Maybe even a family. Instead you're stuck with me, waiting decades on end. And I can't even—"

"Saya. Please." He gathers her closer, face burrowed in her hair. "My life means far more, struggling by your side, than solitary and stagnant without you."

"You say that now..."

" _Always_."

"But what if—?"

He kisses her again, taking the small bubble of sound from her mouth. Kisses as cool and distinct as snowflakes. Each one imparting paragraphs of meaning.

Sighing, Saya folds him closer. God—to  _touch_  him. She can't even describe what it is getting to be like. Each time is more...  _more_.

Strange, that she'd first pictured Haji as a passive lover. Not that she'd ever fantasized sleeping with him when they were teenagers. But you'd have to be blind not to notice how attractive he is. Or to watch him in the eye of a fight—bright as a blade slicing the battlefield—and not be, well.  _Curious_.

Except that his usual manner, somber in a way that cut frivolity off at the root, lent the impression that he might be, if not disconnected from physicality, at least diffident.

Except Saya is learning that there are things, beyond cello or battle, that awaken his quiet ferocity.

"Haji." It is a waver of sound. "Do you want to...?"

"No. Sssh." He sucks hotly at the line of her neck. Inhales, then nuzzles her with a more familiar softness. "Not unless you wish to."

"I-I do. I just—"

Dizzily inarticulate, she renews the kiss. Haji returns it with startling fervor. Then, as if remembering himself, softens those edges before they cut her.

It's always like this. Always a variation of their first time: passion sheathed in tendresse. And it's been wonderful. Honest and natural and sweet, and he always leaves her afterward in a lassitude of sighs, like a stanza from a decadent poem after the flowers and mythology are stripped away.

But always holding back, too.

When they began, it was a necessity. But now...

_Make a space inside._

It reverberates in her skull. The dream is gone: she can place Diva's voice but not the context. Yet the words fall through her. Not a promise but... a possibility.

"Saya?" Haji's eyes are a soft blue query. "What's wrong?"

"N-Nothing." She wraps herself around him. Traces the sharp point of his scarred cheekbone. "I just want to know... if there is something you'd like us to do?"

"Anything you wish."

"We always do that. But maybe... there is something you'd like from me instead?" Goosebumps bloom across her skin: need, uncertainty. "Something you want to do to me. Or for me to do with you."

They'd argued beneath the cherry tree. Disconnecting versus letting go. The dangers—and differences—of each. Tonight, she is ready to reach a compromise. Something they both can enjoy, without straying too far from the safety of the basics.

Haji's gaze, meeting hers, is puzzled but patient. "What is this about?"

"Nothing. Just... remember I said we should be partners? That includes me taking care of you the same way you do for me."

He lifts one of her hands to his mouth. Drops a cool kiss to the palm that makes her shiver. "You cannot possibly believe I make love to you out of duty."

Blushing, she fumbles free. "I know you don't. But I also don't want to be a—" A phrase Yumi used pops into her mind. "—Pillow Queen?"

" _What_?"

His laugh is mystified and delightfully boyish. The sound stuns Saya's entire central nervous system with the urge to make him repeat it. His expression reminds her what a young man he'd been before becoming her Chevalier, witty and wry-tempered.

"I-I just mean that I want to meet you halfway."

"Halfway in what?"

"Um." Her eyes flicker to his. "Our relationship."

The word drops like onyx into a pool, spreading ripples everywhere.

 _Relationship_.

Not something she has applied to them before. It doesn't encompass the depth and nuance of what flows between her and Haji. But maybe it doesn't have to, because everything she needs to say is underneath the word.

In the gloom, Haji's face reforms into a tender enigma.

Then he drags her against him, a rough splay of claw and a rougher press of lips, and his kiss isn't tender at all. His thumb fits against the killing-point of her jaw, tipping her face up to claim her mouth. His tongue glides past her parted lips as a prerogative. A startled noise rises and dies in Saya's throat. In answer, Haji folds their bodies closer, wielding the kiss without mercy. A bite, a bruise, a breakage.

He's never yet kissed her like this. Always, even in the furor of lovemaking, there is a layer of control like a glass wall between them. Safe and sanitary: keeping the dark mess of emotions in.

The wall is cracking.

Haji's other hand steals up beneath the hem of her dress. Fingertips coasting cool along her thigh. Saya shivers, and he breaks the kiss. His eyes are on her, burning-blue and strangely opaque.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" he asks.

"N-No. Do you—?"

He shakes his head.

"Haji, I meant what I said. If there's something you'd like us to do—"

"Ssh." He breathes a cool kiss across her lips. "Sit up for me."

"I—"

He draws back, releasing her. For a second she is disoriented, bereft. Then Haji's arms slide under her shoulders. He coaxes her to her knees. She lets him move her around, lifting her arms up to have her sundress stripped off, her underthings peeled away.

The cool air raises goosebumps on her bare skin; she shivers. It always feels weirdly illicit, being uncovered before him. In the war, it was pure expedience: his gaze lowered with half-detachment, half-deference. Here, that same unblinking gaze licks her from head to toe, like she is a ripe peach of blessing.

A hot little thrill runs up Saya's spine. By habit, she half-covers her chest with one arm, legs modestly pressed together. "Aren't you going to, um—?"

 _Undress_ , she means to say. But Haji has snatched her close again. The cloth of his jacket is cool and rough against her belly and bare breasts. His kiss is the same: talking hungrily to her as if there is so much bottled up inside him that he cannot say except like this.

Maybe he can't.

She keeps expecting him to urge her back across the rug. To cover her and take command. Keeps expecting force, or filth, or something sharper than the slow sweet ways he always takes her. She is willing to try it, whatever it might be. Curious to uncover what lurks beneath that unflappable wrapping of his, a Matryoshka doll of secrets folded into secrets.

Because hasn't Haji been unfolding her, quietly, patiently, inexorably, since the war? Showing her strange and startling aspects of herself, a symphony played to different styles, while still keeping her recognizably whole?

She doesn't yet know the structure of herself. But with Haji, she will never lose the theme.

Her breath flutters in her chest. But Haji keeps the kisses going. Slow, exquisitely slow. Almost breathing the wordless story of himself into her mouth. He won't touch her: not anywhere that isn't perfectly proper. Hands combing through her hair. Tracing the shape of her neck, her shoulders, her arms.

Saya hears herself mewing, low pleading noises as that familiar desire begins to creep through her: the quivering muscles, the breath-held tension, the blackout edging on desperation.

But Haji senses it and breaks away.

Unbalanced, Saya clutches handfuls of his clothes. It feels like he's kissed the breath out of her lungs. Haji is trembling barely perceptibly himself, the vibrations of his heart palpable through the fabric of his clothes. Tiny messages that a stranger might mistake for stillness.

" _Saya_."

Just one word, and she flushes all over.

Always, he obtains her permission before they make love. This time, it is a thrilling promise.

Slowly, he shifts so he is at her back. The cool clothed length of him presses close, her hair cascading down his chest. He gathers it out of the way, tracing the row of graduated pebbles up her spine with his finger. Saya shivers.

"Haji—what're you—?"

"Sssh."

Holding her against him with his clawed arm, he caresses her body with the other hand. His touch is so light it seems a flirtation. Just a skritch of fingernails, up and down, shoulders to breasts, breasts to hipbones, hipbones to thighs. But as he keeps on, Saya's skin begins to buzz, the elusiveness a strange thrill. More thrilling is being held this way—safe, steady, still—in his arms and against his body.

By degrees, the high-strung static inside her subsides, only to rebuild in a different way. She gasps when he finally cups her breasts in both hands. He squeezes them hard. Catches the nipples in his fingers, tugging until her breaths come on shocky cries. The necklace with Diva's rock trembles against her ribs. He doesn't remove it. He admires the cool chain between cooler fingertips. Strokes down her trembling belly the same way, his palm-span covering the better part. Caressing her legs, kneading the long muscles, before his hand curls between her widespread thighs.

A cool fingertip dabbles in her moisture, then slips gently in. Saya mewls, her hips a wanton twist.

"Ha-Haji—"

"Not yet."

"Mm?"

Her hair stirs where he burrows his cool nose into it, to drop kisses against her ear, along her neck. "Tell me. Who has control?'

"Wh-What?" The word flickers in the expanding darkness of her mind. "You do."

"Do I?"

His lips are a cool flutter on her cheek. The pad of his thumb is cool too, tracing through the wet curls at her mons, giving her clitoris a soft flicking that makes her ripple. It is too much: she tries to cancel the sensation out. To stay aware of everything she is doing, instead of dissolving into skin and strain and pure need.

 _Oh_.

The understanding sparks inside her. Her eyes flutter open.

"I do. I have control."

"Yes." He enfolds himself around her. She feels the hot preternatural energy singing beneath his skin. "I want you to give it to me."

"What?" She rocks restlessly against him. "I-I don't—understand. I told you to take it."

"Taking and giving aren't the same, Saya."

_Not the same?_

She wants to ask what he means. But with the question mid-bloom on her lips, she understands. She is giving him the power to break her to pieces— _giving_ , not letting him take it, because it will never be his—and he is showing her without words that he isn't insensible of the gift.

But he is also reminding her, because she can't differentiate, that submission isn't the same as surrender.

_Surrender._

Is that what he wants from her?

"I—"

He catches both her hands in his. Gently squeezes her fingers, bringing them to the grand piano before her. Her fingers touch the keys with airy tinklings. He presses himself tighter against her, a gathering heat trapped between their bodies, his arms laid over hers, cool face alongside her burning one. Her whole body is simmering for him now; her heartbeat practically pulsates through the air.

"Haji—what're you doing—?"

"I want you to play for me."

"Wha—?"

"Your stalker, Tórir... he liked the _Fantaisie Impromptu,_ did he not? Which means there is no accounting for taste." His voice seeps through her like black liqueur. "I've always found Chopin more palatable in your hands than mine."

"This isn't—the time for Chopin."

"I disagree." He licks her ear, before whispering, "Do you remember when I was a boy, and you'd teach me how to play the  _Fantaisie Impromptu_  on the piano?"

"Y-Yes..."

"And when I kept getting it wrong, you'd hit my knuckles with a wooden tawse. Remember that, too?"

"Mmm." A wild fear blooms. "Oh God. You're not—g-going to punish me, are you?" For some reason, the idea is both frightening and shamefully titillating.

"No." His voice is a low rasp in her ear. "I want you play the melody. From your memory."

"It's been  _ages_. I can't—"

"You can. Trust your own control." His right hand, which had been clasping her wrist, now slides down her belly, between her thighs again. Two fingers circle her entrance before curling wetly, delicately inside, a soft inexorable pressure where he knows she feels it most. She jerks against him.

" _Ah-ah_ —!"

He keeps stroking her. The lightest swirl of his fingertips, again and again, as if stirring wine in a chalice. The sensation twists through her in high-pitched jolts. Behind her, Haji stays motionless. Languid. He cups her jaw in his clawed hand. Turns it to gnaw hungrily at her pulsepoint.

"Play for me, Saya. Let me see how far you get."

"I—"

Is this a sexual fantasy? Or a revenge fantasy? Impossible to tell.

Whimpering, she tries to stop his tormenting hand. But Haji catches her wrist mid-air. He brings her hand back to the keys. A lonely tinkle rings out. Her heart pounds; she is sweaty, overheating. Past the point of arousal. If he strips off his clothes and takes her now, she will surely fly out of her skin.

But Haji keeps her still. His right hand carries on strumming, light, tantalizing, until she has to bite her lip not to sob.

" _Please_ —"

"Ssh. Play for me, Saya. You were always as good at the piano as at the cello."

A cry escapes her. Beneath her knees, the rug is hard and scratchy. She can feel the flesh reddening. And behind her, Haji. Cool and still, his hand making slow seductions that leave her frantic. Reminding her that this need, wild and insatiable, is a fraction of what he'd endured all those decades. When she'd kept him at a distance, hurt and used him, refused his closeness as a friend or his attentions as a lover, he'd stayed because there was already nothing of him that wasn't hers.

That capitulation, terrifying and entire, that she cannot summon in return.

_Because you're still afraid to know yourself._

Shakily, she poises her fingers over the keys. Wrists at level with the whites. Her thoughts race wildly. The  _Fantaisie Impromptu_ , never her favorite, was complicated even when she'd practiced daily. She is going to butcher it now. Her whole body is quivering from the cool fingers teasing between her thighs, the cool breadth of Haji behind her and his cool breath tickling her ear.

Clumsily, she begins. Stumbling through the opening tempo, the glittery notes swirling through the heavy air. One hand dancing through the single notes, the other caught in repetition. Simple time against compound.

Except it is  _torture_  to get the timing right. With every arpeggio, her breath hitches. Haji's fingers keep whispering slickly down below. He kisses her ear, gnaws at her neck. Not permitting her to break away. Not stroking fast enough to totally shatter her concentration, nor slow enough that she can fully retain it.

By some miracle, she trips through the eighteenth bar. The music, sweet and sparkling, fills the room. She can almost feel it sinking into her skin. Stirring past memories of the Zoo; recombining them with this torturous, delicious sensation now.

Chills rise on her arms. She hears herself making tiny moans that are drowned by the rich notes.

"Haji." Her head lolls on his shoulder. " _Please_."

"Ssh. Don't stop now, Saya."

It is an entreaty. Music is such an inextricable part of Haji's life. She feels like he is recombining it with his obsession for her. Fusing them into a single exalting leitmotif.

Gasping, she struggles into the twentieth bar. Her fingers are clumsy but sure. She no longer cares about her cramped knees or the scratchy rugs. All she feels is the warm ache of her arousal, Haji's cool body curved over hers, and the music cascading around them.

She is near the thirty-eighth bar when her concentration slips. Haji's hand seals tight between her thighs. Rubbing, rubbing, the exquisite friction driving her insane. Her fingers skid on the keys with a sharp _cling-clang._  Sobbing, she presses back against him.

"Oh—Oh God."

Haji catches her chin, turning her head. And suddenly they are kissing, lost in the heated conversation of mouths and tongues. The music ebbs, forgotten. Frantic, she rocks against his hand. Each sensation is a burst of color behind her tight-shut eyes. His stroking palm is a dull flash of orange. The caressing fingers are sparks of red and green. And the climax is bright hot pulses of white, black, white...

He withdraws his hand before she is finished. She nearly screams with frustration.

"Wait— _please_!"

Kissing her hard, Haji spills her back across the rugs. Their lips break; she pants feverishly into his mouth. She's never felt like this before. Melted into excruciating arousal, on the verge of crying, yet so deliriously  _free_.

Haji gasps as she begins wrenching off his clothes—coat, shirt, belt, trousers. In the gloaming, his body is pure art, sharply-cut and smooth as glass, the scars like scrollwork. She drags him closer, her hands greedy and urging, thighs fanning open to align their groins just so.

"Now.  _Now_."

When he enters her, her hips caught tight in the cradle of his hands, bright spots explode everywhere, too stark to be beautiful. She cries out. Then they are gone, and there is just Haji, his burning eyes on her, his gritted teeth and seething gasp as he fills her, heavy and possessive.

"Saya." She hears the jitter in his voice. Gratitude and awe. "Saya."

She exhales a sob. He's never taken her this way—so fully and fiercely. Yet it is everything she craves: the saw of their hot gasps and the pulsing fit of their bodies and her legs curling tight against his flanks. Her hips rock against his, once, twice, a burning stretch. It feels good, the way his hugs feel good, and his kisses, and the damp drag of his bare skin.

Good to make space in herself. Good to feel  _him_.

_Who has control?_

It is not a revelation but a reminder.

When he begins, it isn't gentle. He takes her in a rhythm of deep savored strokes, each one resonating through her body, like he can't bear to withdraw too far. Gasping, she holds onto him. Her feet skim down his calves, hands splayed against the sweaty hollow of his lower-back. Letting him work her in this rolling downbeat, the pleasure gathering hotter and hotter until her mind sizzles at the edges.

Lovemaking, she's learning, has different variations. It can be like playing cello, or sparring, or dancing, or a dozen poetic clichés meant to hide from the tactile reality. This is new. The closest she can compare it to—and,  _god_ , it's so stupidly obvious—is having conversations with Haji. Learning the language between their bodies, a secret dialogue encoded through skin and pulse and heat. Yet more intense and intimate than any other flow of communication.

Talking to Haji always carries an effortless simplicity not possible with anyone else. Making love to him is the same.

She'd tell him that. But it is impossible for her to cohere the sensations into words. For once, her mind is emptied of anything except a monosyllabic fugue.  _Yes. Like that. Harder. So good._

She doesn't need to think. She finds relief in stirring her hips; agitated circles under his maddening weight. The smallest shift blossoms into gorgeous friction, makes her slick and tender and exquisitely sensitive. She hears her ragged little gasps dissolve into shaky sighs—and then, as Haji grunts and sinks in deeper—a single shocked cry, soprano darkening into contralto.

Her climax flutters unexpectedly through her, tremors brushing her skin like moth-wings, bringing relief but no respite. Her palms catch at his hips. He rocks in place, playing the pressures inside her body, nearly triggering another precipitous fall, yet stringing the tension in her groin to an unbearable high. She doesn't even realize her eyes have rolled back until he calls her name—raw and raspy-edged. The most haunting sound in the world.

When her eyes flutter open, he is watching her. A strange expression on his face—a wax and wane of undefinable emotion she sees everytime they make love.

Now, she recognizes it as surrender.

"Still with me?" he whispers.

"Ye-es." She is and she isn't. As if something in herself she'd never known before has broken wide open, and he is filling it. Not just inside her— _everywhere_ —pouring himself into her. Sharing her skin. "Please. Don't stop."

"Sssh. I've got you."

It is a wavering sigh. Hitching in sync with hers as he increases the pace. A rapid rocking, deep, deep, deeper, until another spark unrolls itself up her body, igniting from the core of herself in slow-motion. Haji gasps, and she mews: louder, softer, a song that matches that movements of her body, an undulation of hips and belly that keeps building, and building, until—

" _Oh_!"

His mouth catches hers. It's not a kiss so much as a wet delving bite. She hears herself sobbing, words jerked out of her by desperation— _oh, dieu, je t'en prie, je n'en peux plus—_ and yet her body is eel-slippery, on the exquisite tip of overflow, Haji's hitched growls echoing in her ears _—oui, vous pouvez, encore une fois—_ and then it happens again, the climax rolling through her, a clenching, twisting tidal wave of over-sensitivity, the movements of her pelvis spasmodic as if trying to feed on him.

She wails, and it should be terrifying, but it is  _good_. Hot and frantic and free, just another means to express this fizzing stretch of connection between them. And he is so  _close_ ; she can see the blue map of veins across the sweep of his neck, where the skin is translucently-pale as rice paper. Her fangs itch to sink in. She finds herself sucking on his jaw, his throat, a mimicry of vampirism. Haji's face goes dreamy and as he tips his head back, lips parted, the sight pierces her with a possessiveness that is nearly feral.

Then she can't help herself anymore. The fangs break skin, blood surging up over her lips. Mindlessly, she swallows, and the more she swallows the more she needs, like water, like air, like—

" _Saya_."

Haji's clawed hand cups her skull. Thumb stroking her cheekbone: beneficence, begging. The seal of her mouth breaks from his neck. Blood drips between them, and they are kissing, close, hot, coppery. She wants to apologize for hurting him. But his mouth opens hungrily against her, expelling growls that are the opposite of pain. His rhythm is intensifying—ruthless, rutting pulses of hips that he's never dared before. Yet each one catches inside her just right, shivering spasms from head to toe, so her breaths dissolve into incoherent  _Oh Oh Ohs—_

The fourth orgasm nearly shakes her apart. Sweat-soaked, heat-soaked, blood-soaked.

She doesn't care. There is power in taking him so deep. In tearing into him again, hard and insatiable, with her teeth. In letting her fingers skitter across his arms, sinking into the brachial veins rising down his biceps, until moon-slices of red stamp against his skin and rim her fingernails. Haji's hiss is one of laconic approval. His whole body has become a knotted frieze against hers, muscles quaking and movements intensifying, torturous, relentless, rapturous—but with a restraint that signals his effort to prolong this exquisite punishing ride.

Trembling, Saya rolls her hips, squeezes with her thighs. There is an entire universe of pent-up tension in her, rising and falling, expanding and contracting, faster and faster. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her mouth is open against Haji's, hoarse cries cutting through her ears with an unmusical jangle, two animals caught in a trap.

Until it happens.

A helpless rushing convulsion, all the world dropping away so there is no sound left but her own cries escalating into a  _scream_. The echo bursts from her tripwired heart, its beats filling a space in which nothing moves. Nothing matters.

A nucleus of pure emptiness.

And blossoming from the emptiness, the rough scrape of Haji's groan. Drawn from his body, which rapidly coheres from a scattershot of separate sensations: the fullness of him buried impossibly deep; the sporadic shudders across his frame; the unusual mottling of pink across his throat and face.

Then he dissolves on her, inside her. Still closed in heavy, face buried in her hair. She can feel the juddery beats of his heart through his skin, racing at the same tempo as hers. Their gasps, filling the darkness, are a discourse on exhausted serenity.

"Oh." Spots of delirium dance before her eyes. She lets them slip shut. "Oh God."

For a long moment they stay close: sweat-sticky and feverish. Against her forehead, Haji's throat works as he swallows. Straightening on shaky elbows, he is a pale strange moon hanging over Saya's world. A gravitational force luring the tides of her body, her blood, but always tangible.

 _Hers_.

"Are you all right?" he rasps.

"Mmmm. You?"

A kiss, slow and worshipful. She lets her sensorium close to nothing but that hot touch, and the hot shape of him in her arms. The edges of Diva's rock dig bitingly between them.

"That was..." A jitter overrides her words. " _Guh_."

"'Guh'?"

"Can't—do sentences." She smiles, still breathing in ragged wonderment. "Too dead."

"Or alive."

"Tell my legs that. I'm—not sure they work anymore."

Haji smiles. In the semi-dark of the room, hair in disarray and dribbles of blood on his neck, he looks both debauched and dreamy. A masterpiece in chiaroscuro.

Sighing, he rolls off her by degrees. Gathers her in the padlocked curve of his arm, the other sliding down her body, palm nestling between her thighs. Saya shivers, her body welted with rug burns. Shivers again when he kisses her, warm like a mouthful of Syrah in winter. There is a surreal comfort in being held this way: sexual, yet beyond sex. A flutter in her chest—happiness or its opposite?—leaves her enormously shaken.

Then she crumbles into tears.

Haji tenses, "Saya, what's wrong?"

"N-Nothing."

"Sssh. What is it? Did I hurt you?"

"No, I just—" Mortified, she swipes at her face. God, why does this keep  _happening_? "I'm okay. I promise."

"What's the matter?" His eyes hold that familiar glint of alarm. "Was it too much?"

"Sssh. It was  _perfect_." Perfect—and terrifying. No limits. No regrets. No threat that the pleasure would leave her mad, unstable,  _monstrous_. She is still whole.

Her smile, reassuring, wobbles. "I'm—surprised. You've been holding out on me."

"Me?" His cooling lips touch her temple. " _You_."

"What?"

He is soft-eyed, stunned. "I have never seen you that way. So absorbed. So  _wild_. You lost yourself in it."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of. Losing myself. What if I—"

"Ssh." He kisses the pulse at her hairline, the dampness of her cheeks. "One lapse is not a regression. Least of all here."

"A lapse can become a habit."

"I hope so." There is adoration in every lineament of his face. "I would not want to forgo that again. Not give you that again."

"Haji..."

"Saya, if you lose control, it will not be here. Pleasure is not degeneration. And control is not existence. You know the difference."

"You say that now—"

"Because I have faith in you." His words thrum through her, a string of pure love. "I hope, someday, you will allow the same for yourself."

She bites her lip. It is overwhelming sometimes, his patience with her. His matter-of-fact acceptance. Every time she thinks she's grasped the extent of it, it opens up to whole new seascapes of devotion.

It is so much more than she deserves.

Tipping her head up, she kisses him again. There is still blood in their mouths, coppery-warm. It reminds her of an old Russian wedding tradition. How the bride and groom kiss after a toast of vodka, to symbolize the shared sweetness of their future.

Or shared suffering?

"I'm sorry, Haji."

"For what?"

"Back there. I-I didn't mean to bite you."

"Ssh. It has already healed."

"Yes. But—" Thinking of the war, the ordeal he'd suffered, during battles and at her hands, shame stirs. "Tearing into your throat... it shouldn't be a part of what we do together. I've hurt you enough."

"Please let me be the judge of that."

"But what if—"

He traces the shape of her mouth with his fingertips. They come away red-smeared. Without taking his eyes from hers, he lifts them to his lips. The quiet intimacy of the gesture shocks her past anything they've just shared.

"It needn't happen again," Haji whispers. "Not unless you wish it. But if it does... It can be whatever we want it to be."

_Whatever we want._

It carries the same resonance as  _Relationship_.

Saya bites her lip around a smile. Her eyes burn; she wants so badly to tell him she loves him. Just blurt it out. Except it's like in a dream where the words are formless, spelled out in a language you cannot speak. She doesn't trust her own fluency, or have enough confidence to make it up as she goes along.

The words that  _do_  tumble off her tongue are ghosts of what she truly feels.

"Kiss me again?"

He obeys. A kiss that isn't like snowfall or Syrah, but scorching droughts and thirst. Her whole body throbs achingly: lips and skin and between her thighs. She doesn't care. She wants total contact, the echo of want still resonating through her, his weight a silky blanket, tinged now with welcome coolness.

The kisses he gives her are the same. A cool reverb of sensation, so it feels like the possibility of another time, another her, are just on the tip of her tongue. Like they'll come back to her any minute.

A becoming into the girl she could've been, if the war hadn't broken her to pieces.

"Saya?" Haji's rasp makes her nerves flare. Licks of fire leaping up her spine. "Are you—?"

"Mnm?"

"Are you in the mood for butchering more Chopin?"

Saya can't answer. The tears have cleared, yet something is bubbling from her depths again. Leaping and spangling like music into the air, the  _Fantaisie Impromptu_  in reverse.

Laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jokes aside, the Fantaisie Impromptu is nothing short of a melodious torture box. I'll stick with baby tunes like Scarborough Fair 8'|
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! Review, pretty please! :3


	24. Potion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday update! c:
> 
> Whew. This was a tough chapter to write. Herein begins the more controversial element to the tale, complete with my own theories on Chiropteran evolution and biology. Some are borrowed from Blood#, while others are revamped concepts from the natural order of bats and bees.
> 
> If y'all want to read a truly original Blood+ fic about Chiropteran mating habits, I highly recommend Tuli Azzameen's Where Black Met Gold trilogy. She also does fun-filled Star Wars stuff, so be sure to check that out too!
> 
> As always, I am delighted by all the gorgeous feedback y'all leave me! I hope the latest chapter is up to snuff - as there's a lot happening in terms of info-dumping.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and review pretty please!

Sunlight drags Saya from the surface of blurred dreams.

The digital numbers on Haji's bedside clock flash 1 PM. Seagulls call over the echo of rolling surf; between the bright shades, the sky shows up in intense stripes of blue. The day holds a breath-held beauty that she wishes she could trap for eternity—pure and perfect.

Absolutely no reason why it should be this way. But why not?

She draws in a languorous breath, stretching a hand out. Encounters only cool linen sheets, not cool skin. The bed is empty except for her. On Haji's side, the covers are thrown back, the pillow undented. Her Chevalier has risen already—likely at the crack of dawn—and left.

Disappointment isn't the right word; she feels off-center. Sitting up, tangled in sheets, she winces at the unaccustomed heaviness of her body. Her thighs are stuck together; she aches all over, hair wild and skin blotched. Souvenirs from a night well-spent.

"Haji?"

It is a rasp. Her voice is raw, as if with too much singing. Or is screaming a better word? Her face burns. She's never been particularly noisy during sex. But the sounds Haji shocked out of her last night were second to war-cries in battle.

After the game with the piano, they'd gone two more lightning-rounds with barely a pause. Her whole body, once roused by his, was a klieg-light that refused to go out. No more springtime shyness or old-fashioned prudery—they had shocked each other with their wildness, all clutching nails and biting teeth. He'd had her sprawled on the staircase, then propped against the window of the sitting room, then finally in his bed. Pushing past her surface, beyond the hard-jolting peaks of pleasure, to the stymied fireball beneath that was terrifying for being so tightly locked away. He'd built her up to it languidly. Slow twists of hips and hot kisses and blue-burning eyes, until her climax was saturated in her skin, boiling beneath her bones—a slow-spilling, sobbing, overheated fugue that lasted for what felt like minutes.

Afterward, between her giddy tears and laughter, he'd held her draped across his body, like a child in an oak tree, nestled between the shady coolness of its branches.

She fell asleep dreaming of the Zoo.

Now, Saya drags herself unsteadily out of bed. On her feet, the hormonal hangover engulfs her—a full-bodied dizziness.

Yet her mood is better than it's been in ages.

Diva's rock, dangling from the end of its chain, is already a familiar weight against her skin. She slips it off carefully. Touches it to her lips, almost a good-luck kiss, before stowing it in her jewelry box.

Twenty minutes later, bathed and dressed, she tiptoes downstairs.

In the kitchen, a tray of home-baked cookies sits alongside a plate heaped with spicy shrimp stirfry. Both are still fragrantly warm. There are also three perfect pink roses on the counter. Smiling, Saya picks them up. A note nestled between the stems, in Haji's sharply-slanting French script, says,  _Called away. Will be back soon. Last night was exquisite._

Called away where? she wonders. It isn't like her Chevalier to bolt after intimacy. Not unless it's an emergency. But the flowers and note reassure her.

"Well. He doesn't stick around the Morning After. But at  _least_  he cooks breakfast."

Saya whirls.

Nathan Mahler is there. A straw hat covers his curly-wurly blond hair. His body is wrapped in a superbly-cut white silk kimono with carmine skeins of foxgloves patterning its sleeves. The  _obi_  is carmine too, decorated with sumptuous ivory needlework. Saya looks closer, and realizes it is embroidered with snakes, jaws open and coils sinuous, a mythical drama leaping to life.

Nathan's face pure drama too. Sharp-sculpted and superciliously smug, the eyes twinkling with a half-jaded, half-juvenile wickedness.

The sight of him spins Saya into a whirlwind of horror.

"How—how did you get in here?!"

"Front door." He gives her a gleeful once-over. "Oh, lookit  _you_. All rosy-cheeked and bow-legged. Someone got that _good-good_  last night, hmmm?"

Saya doesn't dignify that with a reply. A dozen scenarios of his decapitation erupt in her mind. It is all she can do not to snatch up the chef's knives and launch herself at him.

An improvement over their last meeting. Back then, two months out of her Awakening, she'd nearly skewered him with Kai's meat cleaver.

She opens her mouth to speak, but is checked by Nathan's wagging finger. "Ah ah. There shall be no  _fricassee_  this early in the afternoon."

She grits her teeth. "How. Did you. Get here?"

"I  _told_  you. Front. Door." He doffs his hat, flicking off a rose petal on the trim. "Haji gave me a spare key."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because no self-respecting  _artiste_  can afford to alienate his manager."

" _M-Manager_?"

Nathan flings a tiny look of pique her way. "He didn't tell you?  _Tsk_. How typical. Leave it to a man to lie about three things: money, work, and ex-loves."

_Ex-loves?_  she thinks. But what comes out is, "Why are you here?"

"To talk shop with Haji. Make plans. Schedule tours. Blah de blah." As he speaks, he pirouettes around the kitchen, opening up cupboards, sniffing at jars, prying into shelves. "There's a huge music expo happening in Vienna. Haji  _must_  sign on."

"He's not here right now."

_So go away_.

Nathan's proximity makes her skin prickle. The high-spirited savoir faire doesn't fool her for one red second. Underneath is a cross between a cursed Pharaoh's sarcophagus and a ticking time-bomb: an energy both ancient and fatal.

She's learnt from Kai that he is no longer on Diva's side. Sayumi and Sayuri—who affectionately call him  _Yako-san_ , from the legend of  _kitsune_  tricksters—have explained to Saya that he isn't even, strictly speaking, Diva's Chevalier. She doesn't want to believe it. But the fact that Nathan is alive, despite getting sliced apart by her bloody sword, is proof enough. Her blood isn't poisonous to him.

Which compounds her wariness. If he isn't Diva's Chevalier, then where did he come from?

Nathan, cheerfully oblivious, takes a bite of the stirfry. Tears spring to his eyes; he fans a waggling tongue. " _Yeeeowch_! Hot!" From the sink, he gulps down a glass of water. "Who's the sadist who whipped  _that_  up?"

"…Um. Haji."

" _Wha-a-a-at_? That white cheddar cheezit  _seasons_  his meals?!"

"He's been doing it for years!" She is weirdly offended on Haji's behalf. "He'd put paprika in our  _soupe à l'oignon_  at the Zoo."

The cook used to decry his habit as  _Gypsy devilry_. But the cook used to say that about condiments in any shape or form. Come to think, Haji's childhood recollections about his grandmother's cooking—spicy goulash, stuffed peppers, rabbit-and-onion stew—make sense as more than nostalgia, but preventing the erasure of an identity that Amshel and Joel had tried to squash, remaking him from an " _atavistic guttersnipe_ " to a gentleman  _"much reformed with the aid of a proper French education."_

He'd been their little experiment in  _humanizing_  the  _sub-human_  as surely as Saya was.

"Paprika in  _soupe à l'oignon_?" Nathan guffaws. "I'll be damned. The boy invented fusion-food!"

"Huh?"

He is already on his knees at a little alcove below the counter, where Haji keeps a collection of cookbooks. Most are Kai's: leftovers from culinary school. Others are souvenirs from her Chevalier's travels: Persian recipes and Thai cuisine and easy-to-make American appetizers, the pages bookmarked for certain dishes that have hit the spot for her. A cheat-sheet of Saya-Snackage.

Nathan pulls out an untouched-looking volume from the bookcase.  _Love At First Bite: The Complete Vampire Cookbook_. He settles crosslegged on the tiles and opens it in his lap, curls swinging down over his eyes.

Then—"Beef or pork?"

"What?"

"For sausages. That stirfry will  _barely_  tide you over. I should whip you up a proper meal—oozing blood and protein. C'mon. What're you in the mood for? Blodplättar? Svartsoppa? Blutwurst?"

"I—I don't—" Why is he offering to cook for her? Already, she is sour-faced at her daily dose of imperfect perfection—sunshine, stirfry, solitude—ruined by Nathan's jangling presence. "I'm  _fine_. Haji's not here. Why don't you go away?"

"And miss out on quality-time  _with you-hoo-hoo_?" He gapes in mock-affront. "Please. My real pilgrimage was to see the Queen. Frighten the little snake under her gown and what-not."

"What?"

He ignores her, holding the book aloft. "I left Haji this so he'd make you nourishing  _treats_. Not scorch your bunghole off! What's the boy's obsession with hot peppers, anyway? I wouldn't be surprised if his spooge tastes like  _jalapeños_."

" _Excuse me_?"

He's already swung to his feet, a balletic movement worthy of a double cabriole. Opening the refrigerator, he speaks into the wafts of cool air. "Hmmm-Hmm. Let's take a looksie. Leftover takeout. Cold pizza. Parsnips-turned-penicillin.  _Goodness_! Your cup runneth over! Is there at least any  _blood_?"

"Would you  _stop_  that!?"

His poking and prying are unutterably unnerving. The entire kitchen, its familiar scents stirring a rich olio of intimacies with Haji—laughter and kisses, confidences and arguments—is made disconcerting by his presence.

She's begun thinking of the villa as exclusively  _theirs_.

"Ooh.  _Snippy_." Nathan closes the fridge. "I'm just saying. Any Chevalier worth his salt ought to keep a well-stocked larder for his Queen. That pretty creamsicle of his may fill up your cooch just fine. But he can't fill your belly the same way. Not with yummies. Or babies." A sly pause. " _Yet_."

"W-What?"

Nathan dances around the counter as if he hasn't heard her. From the fruit basket, he hefts for inspection a pineapple big as a baby's head. "Hmmm. This will do." He strokes its spiky surface in mock-adoration. "It's so rare... so costly... so luxurious..."

Saya blinks. "The pineapple?"

"Oh ye-e-e-es." He trills it like a birdsong. " _If you brought me diamonds/If you brought me pearls/If you brought me roses..."_ Glide, slide, glissade. _"Like some other gents/Might bring to other girls_." All crooning vocal-fry and ballet-twirls. " _It couldn't please me more/Than the gift I seeeeeeee_." Tour en l'air! " _A pineeeeeeeeeeeaaaapple for me_!"

Saya grits her teeth. " _Stop_  that!" God, it's like dealing with a rambunctious toddler. "What were you saying before? About—?"

"Babies?" He bats his eyelashes coyly. "Why? Are you interested in rugrats?"

"I never said—"

"But you're curious, right? Well. I can't blame you." He sighs. "In the days of yore, you'd have mothers and grandmothers imparting such wisdom. There would be ceremonies to mark your first bleeding. Your initiation into the mysteries of sex. The elaborate rituals of the first battle, the first kill, the first kiss..."

His voice is melty marmalade with memory. Saya doesn't trust it.

"You say that like you were there," she scoffs.

"Oh, but I  _was_."

"You expect me to believe—"

"You've heard stranger things in your past, darling. And you'll hear stranger in your future." His smile takes a darker dimension. "You're aware, thanks to Joel's diary, that you came from a mummy named  _Saya_. Did you never wonder who she  _was_?"

"I had other things to worry abou—"

"I  _know_. That silly war between you and Diva." He blows a raspberry. "It's over now, thank Hamingja above and the Dís below. It's spared neither hide nor hair of your sister—but  _you_  are still here. Don't you think it's time to get in touch with your roots?"

_Roots?_  On reflex, Saya lifts a hand to her hairline.

Nathan groans. "Not those roots.  _Jeez_." He plunks the pineapple on the counter. "Forget it. Pass me a knife."

"I told you Haji isn't—"

"I  _heard_." He gestures impatiently. "Take a seat. We'll do schmooze-and-smoothies while we wait."

"I don't  _want_  smoothies—"

"But you'll drink 'em anyway. And  _like_  it."

"I'm not—"

Her stomach rumbles like a referee settling a match.

Nathan tweaks a brow. "You were saying?"

Sulky, Saya climbs onto a stool. The stirfry and cookies are cool by now. But after last night's exertions, she is intensely hungry. Cramming forkfuls of shrimp into her mouth, munching on cookie after cookie, she watches Nathan whirl around the kitchen tiles with a cutting knife, all Broadway pizzazz with a sinister side-order of Hitchcock.

He carves up the pineapple. Nothing like the way Haji does it: a self-taught precision from the Iron Chef and Youtube tutorials, the recipe book laid open like a battle strategy and utensils assembled like a small armory. Nathan wields the blade carelessly, as if he'd worked in the kitchens of noisy households and high-end restaurants alike.

Chopping neatly, he says, "This is a nice place you've got. Private. A bit pricey with the  _ad velorem_  property tax. But hey! The Goldschmidt chingching gives you deep pockets. It's a good place for it to happen."

"For what to happen?"

He doesn't answer. From the fridge, he gets out a carton of yogurt. Scoops a daub off the top with his fingertip, and licks it. "Mmm. Lo-fat vanilla." Snickering, "Just like Haji, hm?"

Blushing, Saya drops her gaze. Where  _is_  Haji? Maybe she should text him?

In the blender, Nathan dumps in the diced pineapples, one banana, ice cubes and the entire container of yogurt. When the machine has whirred the mixture into a creamy yellow smoothness, he pours it into a tall glass. "Say  _razzmatazz-riddle-me-reeeee_."

"Um," Saya says, right before the glass overflows.

The sounds of nurture only underscore the strangeness of the scene. She finds herself eyeing Nathan the way Alice might size up the Mad Hatter, wondering if the tea is spiked or simply poisoned.

"Go on," Nathan prods. "It's good for you. Diva liked hers with a sprinkle of cinnamon."

Her sister's name goes through her in an irregular pulse of sickness. "Diva liked  _human_  food?"

"Liked?  _No_. Had to eat it.  _Yes_." Nathan scrapes out the remnants of the smoothie in a glass for himself. "Your sister's relationship with blood wasn't unlike a frat boy on a binge.  _Chug chug chug_. It had less to do with instinct than her days in the tower. She was half-starved most of the time. Meager portions, and little blood to boot. She grew to crave what her body didn't get."

The sickness becomes a stomach-ache of the whole body. "So you're implying... what? That Chiropterans don't live on blood alone?"

"Not the  _Queens_." He flips his hair out of his eyes. "As a rule, Chevaliers have no need for human sustenance. Our bodies are self-sustaining. But it's different for a Queen. In order to nourish embryos, she needs different nutrients." He points to the cookbook. "In the old days, Queens mixed blood with grain and meat. Enjoying the fruit of human labor—while absorbing blood for its boost to their immune systems."

"Immune systems?"

" _Of course_! For most animals, blood is  _terribly_  difficult to metabolize. Half water, half protein, with little in the way of vitamins. Also:  _crawling_  with pathogens. But Chiropterans, miracles that we are, have evolved to  _require_  it. Blood keeps the microbes in our guts nigh-invulnerable to the deadliest toxin. It also enables our interferon response—genes that switch on to deal with infections. It's why we heal so quickly. Blood, more than a meal, is our  _medicine_."

Saya squints suspiciously. "Medicine?"

"Mmm-hmm. With different sources having different benefits." He ticks them off his fingers. "A Chevalier's blood acts as a stimulant for a Queen. It awakens her memories after her hibernation. Or it serves as a stabilizer. Calming her in times of distress. But by far the most beneficial blood is  _human_."

Saya's eyes narrow. "As a snack?"

"No, darling. As a  _sanative_." Warming to the subject, Nathan perches on the stool. "Our relationship with humans seems predatory at first glance. But it's closer to symbiotic. We need them. And, once upon a time,  _they_  needed  _us_."

Saya stares at him. Dust-motes float in the clean sunlight, the kitchen taking on a diffuse brightness. But Nathan seems a blur at the edges. Maddingly opaque. Why should she trust a word out of his mouth?

Yet doubt cannot eclipse her curiosity. "…What do you mean?"

Nathan rests his chin on a palm. Nostalgia oozes through his words like a fairytale drizzled over the dry crust of a history-lesson. "No one knows who came first. Humans. Chiropterans. Yet we have coexisted—grudgingly—since the spoken word itself. In the early days, we survived by attacking the livestock in human villages. Pigs, sheep, cattle. Soon, we graduated to  _bipedal_  prey. But tasty as human flesh was, their blood proved more  _useful_. It healed us. Kept us strong. So we chose humans as our primary food-source. And trained them to fulfill the role with _gusto_."

"What?"

A  _tch_. "You really don't know  _anything_ , do you?" Without waiting for an answer, he snags a cookie from the tray. "Are these Brown-Butter-Bourbon?  _Ooh_! My favorite!" He chews with openmouthed ostentation. " _Mm-mm_. This is  _definitely_  Sayumi and Sayuri's recipe. Bless them. Hearts of harlots, but by  _god_ , they bake like the unholy love-children of Sarah Lee and Betty Crocker combined." He bites into another cookie, scattering crumbs down his shirtfront. "Now where were we?"

"Brown-Butter-Bourbon?"

"Before that."

"Food sources?"

"Before that."

Saya barely refrains from rolling her eyes. " _Blood_?"

" _Yes_! As I was saying. Blood has kept Chiropterans and humans bound to one another for  _eons_." He dusts the crumbs off his shirt. "Mind you, it wasn't always that way. Our ancestors began very different from you and I. Massive. Monstrous. Roaming the cold wastelands, they fed on man and beast alike. Looking back at our  _gudelære_ —our god lore—I'd argue they were inspiration for many human myths. The Greek Titans. The Norse Jötnar." He sighs, "Alas, once the Ice Age ended, they had to  _adapt_. Most creatures—take, for instance, the  _homo sapiens sapiens_ —were pretty straightforward about the process. They made an honest living through sheer numbers, and tools. Chiropterans? We chose  _stealth_."

"Stealth?"

Nathan fans a hand up and down before his face. With each sweep, the tiny muscles in his features rearrange themselves. A study of cherubic softness one moment, a fiasco of wrinkles and cicatrices the next. Old. Young. Pretty. Ugly.

Saya is uneasily transfixed. Her vision reels in and out, seeing the ordinary skin of a human being—and the unnatural elongation of muscles beneath.

The monster hidden beneath the surface.

"Most animals learn to mimic others for protection," Nathan says, his features resuming their familiar shape. "It's different for Chiropterans. We took on human skin to stay within striking distance of our prey.  _Hide in plain sight._  It's why we evolved special nerves to sense body-heat in our prey's veins. Wings to sweep them away to our lairs. Sharp teeth to make incisions without tearing major arteries." He chuckles. "Honestly, the evolutionary copycatting is  _impeccable_. Not only did we adapt to look like humans. We even came to  _fuck_  like them. It's easy to swap a human woman with a Chiropteran Queen in the dark. The only thing that gives her away is that she wakes up next to six feet of  _morning wood_."

Saya drops her gaze. The vividness of last night with Haji threatens to leech her attention from the moment.

Nathan drums his fingernails against his glass of smoothie, a series of playful plinks. "Queens mimic human women in other respects too. Yearly menstruation. Colostrum from the breasts when nursing. A fatal susceptibility to Hansen's  _MMMBop_." She blinks, and he sticks out his tongue. " _Kidding_. Anyway, these traits were intended to let Queens mingle incognito in human habitats. Pick Chevaliers from among them, leaving the rest none the wiser."

He tips her a crooked smile. "They  _did_  get wise, though. Queens may look human. But their gifts are anything  _but_."

"Gifts?"

"I don't mean the speed and strength. Your foremothers had greater powers still.  _Seiðr_ , we called it. Sorcery is the closest translation—but it was so much more. They could terrify the fiercest animal with the faintest footfall. They could divine a man's past or future with a sip of his blood. A wave of their hands, and flowers bloomed, or withered away."

Saya thinks of the blue roses sprung up around the villa. Cold knowledge and deeper icing of fear seep through her bones.

"Naturally," Nathan says, "such gifts awed the humans. The Queen could literally giveth life, or taketh away. In exchange for her boons, humans offered payent. Shiny jewels, shinier boys. Before long, they worshiped Queens as goddesses.  _Blodfødt_ , they called them. Born of blood. Since they existed in pairs, each Queen had a role. Blue Queens were seen as the bright, electrifying energy of birth. Of life and fertility. The womb. Conversely, the Red Queen was seen as the dark, primordial pull of death. War. Chaos. The tomb. Two sides of the same coin. Upon this dualism, the first cultural system arose. And with it, the incipient seeds of altruistic suicide and human sacrifice."

" _Suicide_?" asks Saya in alarm. " _Sacrifice_?"

Nathan sighs, dream-drunk on memory. " _Aaah._  I remember those days well. The Queens' court was Valhalla itself. To be accepted as their Chevalier was honor unparalleled. Red Queens chose their lovers for their prowess with swords. The Blue ones favored a lively manner, and enough charm to knock the stars down from the sky. During the fall equinox, both Queens met with their chosen Chevaliers at  _Bøsdalafossur_ —a waterfall that dropped straight into the sea. Here, they would mate with their sisters' Chevaliers, hanging upside down from the cave walls, enfolded in each other's wings." White teeth sharpen themselves in a smirk. "You should try it with Haji sometime."

She colors up violently, but he pays no mind. "Now where were we? Oh right! Once the Queens fell pregnant, they congregated to maternity colonies. Fantastic fortresses where they stayed sequestered, until the Princesses were born." His glinty eyes meet hers. "Had  _you_  lived then, my sweet, you'd have not one mother to teach you, but  _two_. Each one imparting special gifts, and the secrets of swords and songs. Each one grooming you into a  _goddess_  in your own right."

Saya shakes her head. She was ready to believe the brutal expedience of Chiropteran evolution. But this is just too over-the-top to swallow.

"If we're such  _goddesses_ ," she says, "then where did all the Queens go?"

Nathan's eyes, flickering down, go almost black. "The answer is simple:  _Mankind_. They began as our prey. But as their numbers expanded,  _we_  became  _theirs_. Humans breed more prolifically than us. Soon they'd gone from outnumbering us fifty-to-one to a  _thousand_ -to-one. At which point they began to wonder if they needed us at all. Ere long, wars erupted across the land. Chiropterans were hunted and slaughtered. We experienced severe habitat loss, starvation, shrinking gene pools. A  _bona fide_  biotic crisis." His lip curls. "Of course, the humans had  _help_  pulling it off."

"Help?"

"A miserable story, darling. To be told at a miserabler time." He takes a pensive sip of his smoothie, "In those days— _these days_ —no one could have predicted it'd come to this. An entire empire brought down. An entire people erased. Certainly, your mother never saw it coming. She foretold all else about her daughters' futures... except how they would  _live_  them."

Silence falls, like the aftermath of a broken prophecy. Saya frowns. She's sure Nathan is just spinning yarns. Yet her skull throbs with after-echoes of the conversation with the  _yuta_.

"My mother," she whispers. "Who was she?"

Nathan smooths a palm across her hair. The touch releases a sweetish cologney whiff from his body. She inhales it with unease, feeling something stir in her mind, an unfixed memory like a recurring nightmare...

"Your mother—may her name adorn the stars—was a Blue Queen. A high priestess. She had a gift for herbs and prophecy, and a voice like syrup poured in spring." His gaze dulls. "She would weep to see her daughters now. One dead, the other alone. She gave up her own life for yours. For what purpose, I never fathomed. After all, you weren't conceived by love, but by force."

Saya's heartbeat falters. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"Oh, darling." He sags a little. "Must I spell it out for you? Your father was an oathbreaker. Your mother had many Chevalier to serve her—myself happily among them. But your father had no interest in serving. He imprisoned your mother in a fortress by the sea. There, she was starved, and tortured, and raped. By him, and his brothers—may Hekla take them howling. You and Diva were the product of such a union. And yet... your mother protected you.  _Keep them safe_. Such was her dying wish." He sighs. "Lo and behold, you've undone eons' worth of her ancient magic. Killed your sister as easy as breathing."

The words shake loose the clench of confusion in Saya's chest. Before she can stop herself, she slaps him across the face.

" _Ow_!" Nathan reels back, a hand to his cheek. "What was that for?"

Saya rises to her feet. Her voice shakes with stoppered rage. "Easy? You think it was  _easy_?"

"I do." The energy in Nathan's eyes is bright-dark and blistering. Not a time-bomb but a massing typhoon. "It must've been, for you to accomplish what is anathema between two Sister-Queens. But that's not your fault. Then, as now, it's the work of corrupt men." He laughs, and the energy dissipates. "Fear not. So long as I breathe, I'll see to it that you live. It's too late for Diva. But she made her bed."

Saya shakes her head. Like atrophied muscles forced into motion, the words cramp in her throat.

"Amshel," she whispers. " _He_  made her bed. Diva never had a choice."

"No, she didn't," Nathan says. "But  _you_  do. So what do you plan to spend it on?"

Saya frowns. "On the people I love."

"Looooove?!" He rears away, a  _sur la pointe_  of scorn. " _Lungi da me satana_!"

"What?"

"Ugh. Ugh.  _Ugh_." He waves his hands, as if dispelling the word from the air like a fart. "Darling. Sweetheart.  _Ma fille magnifique_. Take it from someone who's been around the block a time or ten-thousand. Forget love. What you need is  _loyalty_. That way  _you_  make the rules, and can open and close the doors of yourself as you see fit. Always good for a Queen to know her borders." His fingers make a sharp slice in the air, describing a gap, or a guillotine. "And if someone crosses them— _wssssht_. That's the end of it. The label is forever—and so is their fate. Traitors are executed. Blasphemers burned at the stake. That's as it should be. Whereas love?  _Pffff_. Love traps you, not the other way around."

"Trap…?"

He bristles. "Just look around you! How many girls trap boys in the soft manacles of their bodies for love, only to have the boys turn around and trap them with a ring on their fingers and empty words on their lips? Love is frivolity, darling. You are a  _Queen_. Indulge in it as you do on a tray of bonbons. But don't let it rule your life. Don't let it rule  _you_. Aim for greater heights."

Saya tries to shake off the dizzying  _Huh?_  at his tirade. "Like what?"

"Whatever you're hungry for. Whatever satisfies you."

He says  _Satisfies_. What she hears is  _Steadies_. Steady, steady as a ship, and ships sail wherever they are steered. Except where is she steering herself, without Diva to serve as the figurehead on the prow, the purpose for her life's journey?

Each time she contemplates the alternatives—travel, music, food, sex—they show up strangely one-dimensional.

"What if…nothing makes me hungry? Or satisfies me?"

Nathan lets off a trill of laughter. "Oh,  _come_  now! The whole world, since it began, is all gnawing hungers given different form. That is all that keeps it spinning."

"That can't be all. There must be… more?"

"More?  _Hmmm_. What is solace, I wonder, for the girl who knows neither hunger nor satisfaction?  _Ooh_ , I know!" He whirls exuberantly in his stool. "In creation, perhaps? In beauty and in rebuilding broken things. In legacy."

"Aren't Chiropterans a legacy in themselves?"

"We are. But there are different kinds of immortality. One is to make of  _oneself_  a tribute to forever. And the other... the other is  _heirs_. Little links in the chain that runs parallel to the flow of time itself."

"I can't have childre—"

He guffaws, "Who told you  _that_?"

Her heart skips with a terror verging on vertigo. "But Diva's Chevaliers are all dead. The only way I—a Quee—the only way Diva conceived—"

"Is with  _your_  Chevalier. Your little Riku." His smile is a  _tour-de-force_  of calculated charm. "As a rule, a Queen has up to three sets of twins in her lifetime. Each pair from her sister's Chevalier. But if that's impossible, she may get up to three from her  _own_  Chevalier." A beat. "Yours is  _Haji_."

The vertigo kicks up a breathless lurch. The cookies and stirfry threaten to come spewing up.

"That can't be right," she croaks. "Dr. Julia and Ezra studied Chiropterans. They said... there's certain genetic material in the sister's Chevalier that triggers conception. A D-factor and S-factor. Without that, Queens don't store the sperm—"

" _Pbbbbt_." Nathan waves a hand. "Red Shield knows even less than Amshel. And what he knew was the barest tip of the microscopic millimeter of the iceberg."

"Wh-what are you saying?"

Nathan finishes off his smoothie. A creamy mustache streaks his upper-lip. He licks it off with feline relish.

"Listen, darling. I'll tell you as I told Diva. You are a  _Queen_. Without armies. Without vassals. But a Queen nonetheless. You must consolidate your place. And above all,  _protect_  yourself. With smarts. With savagery. With shields. That's what daughters for each Queen boil down to."

"How can daughters  _protect_  me?" Saya snaps. "Pregnancy neutralizes our blood! It's the only reason I managed to kill  _Diva_!"

He rolls his eyes. " _Annnnd_? You think that's forever? Foolish girl. If every Queen's blood lost potency after childbirth, our species would've died before the Great Flood."

"You're saying—?"

"It's not a  _permanent_  state. Only until she stops nursing. Pregnancy is extremely hard on a Queen's body. All her power is transposed into her offspring. But she grows strong again.  _Stronger_ —because for the next thirty years, she will not succumb to her Long Sleep."

Disbelief, the inversion of hope, clings to Saya's skin. She sinks heavily into her stool. "The Long Sleep..."

"A vital time for a Queen. It evolved as an adaptation to the cold winters in the Ice Age. Which, FYI, lasted  _decades_. In those days, with blood as scarce as sunshine, Queens would hibernate. Living off fat reserves in their bodies, from the safety of their cocoons." He pulls a face. "In my day, to awaken a Queen during her Long Sleep was forbidden. She'd become disoriented, and deadly. As  _you_  well know."

Saya can't meet his eyes. Deep inside, a lattice of ice spreads everywhere. A nightmare vision of Vietnam, the fire and screams, the bright swipes of her sword, the dark gouts of blood.

Her fingers tremble around her glass.

"Of course, childbearing doesn't  _end_  the long sleep," Nathan says. "It merely  _delays_  it. Much in the same way pregnancy for human women delays  _menopause_." Nathan shrugs. "Thirty years is plenty for a Queen to raise her daughters. To protect them, so they can protect the Queendom in her absence. Among the Blodfødt, princesses were charged with defending the territories. Currying favor and forming coalitions with other Queens."

Saya's fingers are numb against the glass. The rest of her is numb too—not with dread, but its opposite.

"These princesses?" she says. "You said a Queen can make them with her own Chevalier?"

"In a fashion."

"What fashion?"

"Natural versus artificial selection." He chucks her under the chin. "How old are you, under that baby-faced viz? Two-hundred, give or take?"

Saya jerks away. "What's that got to with it?"

"Well, the oven's still gotta  _function_  before you stick a bun in." He pops another cookie into his mouth. "As I recall, a Queen's menarche begins when she is sixteen. Around this time, she ceases aging, and begins to demonstrate accelerated healing. Her blood also develops the capacity to create Chevaliers. A couple decades after her first is sired, she subsides into Long Sleep. This owes to chemicals in her bloodstream, signaling that she has a protector for her cocoon." A contemplative  _crunch_. "As far as the twins go, Yumi's still got time. Her beefcakey boytoy is barely four years old. But Yuri will start approaching her Long Sleep soon. She turned Sachi eight years ago, as I recall."

Saya's throat burns, and her eyes go blurry. Yumi and Yuri… their time with her is still so brand-new. She hadn't considered how their own hibernations might end it even before the novelty wears off.

"The Long Sleep," she whispers. "Is there any way to stop it completely?"

" _Nope_." Nathan's cheerful matter-of-factness verges on brutality. "Without it,  _you dead_."

" _Dead_?"

"Ever seen someone with cryptococcal meningitis? Think that, times a  _hundred_. The lining around your brain will not just become inflamed. It will  _erode_. You'd end up a living vegetable—and finally a compost heap." He idles over his polished fingernails. "Queens  _need_  to hibernate, darling. Same way humans need sleep. In our day, we called it  _Mors Søvn._ Mother's Sleep. The idea was that she took all her Chevalier's sleepless hours upon herself. Only motherhood—the birth of little princesses—could break the curse. If  _briefly_."

A suffocating silence settles in Saya's chest. She barely hears when Nathan goes on, "Given how long-lived Queens are, their window for conception is astonishingly brief. It begins at age sixteen, then narrows toward their one-seventieth year. For you, this would've been… what? Back in 2006?" When Saya doesn't answer, he continues, "It's during this period that a Queen is likeliest to conceive. Afterward yields less luck. It's why Diva was so  _desperate_  to get pregnant those last years. In her bones, she knew next Awakening would make it harder. So she took her chance when she had it."

_Took her chance._

Saya thinks of Riku's body in the anemic light of Red Shield's ship, pale and helpless as an excised eyeball. Thinks of Diva's hands smoothing along her belly, eyes lit with a sly glow that made Saya want to break her bones, and then Diva looking up, her face frozen around a shocky blankness in the bright stage lights at the Met, Saya's sword driven through her belly, her joy coming undone as her body fell apart, beyond grief, beyond pain, and she reached a hand for the cocoons, a dark stain on her dark gown and hairline fissures spreading on her fingertips...

_Goodbye, my little ones._

Misery makes her heart twist and want to bite itself. It's an effort to speak. "…So what are you saying?"

"I'm  _saying_  you've got until your Long Sleep. Maybe the next Awakening. Maybe not." He flutters his lashes. "We may stay flawless on the surface. But that clock's tick-tick- _tickin_.' And your time's nearly up."

"My time?"

"To have daughters, you dope!" He pouts. "Pity none of Diva's Chevaliers survived. Solomon would've knocked you up  _lickety-split_."

Saya winces. Even now, the memory of Solomon is a current on her skin, a secret sparkage of sweetness. It catches her off-guard, because she seldom dwells on him. She hadn't loved him. She'd relied on his devotion in the end. She'd grieved for him afterwards, the same way she'd grieved for the others lost to the war. But the mourning was eclipsed by Haji's loss.

Without her Chevalier's shield of steadiness, her entire world went off-center.

"Solomon is gone," she whispers. "It's  _Haji_  I'm talking about."

"So it is." His eyes glint, sly and shadowed in a way she doesn't understand—and certainly doesn't trust. "By the by. Did you know that in noble houses, a sister's Chevalier wasn't the  _only_  candidate for babymaking?"

"What?"

"It's true. Daughters of one Queen as far down as three generations might share the opposite Queen's Chevaliers, or vice versa. Not their  _father_ , mind you. That was a great taboo. But they could mate with their aunt's other Chevaliers—technically their  _uncles_ —and deliver perfectly healthy babies."

Saya is horrified. "You're saying Haji could—?"

"With Sayumi and Sayuri?  _Sure_. Not that it'll happen. They see Haji as a Pseudo-Papa, so the suggestion would  _appall_  them." He slinks out a ghastly giggle. "I did mention it to Haji. Once. The boy went from lily-white to thundercloud black. Then he dragged me outside and dunked me facedown in the sea until…"

"Until?"

"Until I swallowed fifty different kinds of shellfish!  _Duh_." He sniffs. " _You_  try apologizing with seawater in your lungs, missy!"

Her lungs are already congealed—but with liquid dread.

"What about me?" she whispers, "You said Haji and I—?"

" _In a fashion._  Typically, Queens mated with their sister's or aunt's Chevaliers because conception was surefire. A genetic incentive for rivals to stay friendly. But sometimes …one Queen perished. Or all her Chevaliers died in wars. In such moments, the surviving Queen had only her own Chevaliers to fall back on."

"And did they get pregnant?"

There is no mistaking the sneaky schadenfreude in Nathan's smile. "What's the magic woooord?"

" _Tell me_!"

"All right. All right.  _Jeez_." He makes a show of cleaning his ear. "As a rule, to avoid the inbreeding depression—that's when a population of yokels fuck themselves into  _Hapsburg Dynasty_  levels of disaster—a Queen's body rejects the seed of her own Chevalier. It wasn't always that way. Biology made it so. But it can also  _un_ make it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, a Queen's body is a marvel of nature." He taps a finger against his nose. "Our kind communicate primarily through pheromones. These act as body-altering agents. The most powerful are the  _Queen's_. Each exudes her own signature scent, like a fancy perfume. These serve as chemical cues for control and cohesion among colonies. Summoning Chevaliers, signaling danger, safeguarding fertility."

"Fertility?"

" _Of course_. Between sister-Queens, their pheromones synchronize everything. Hibernations, menses, ovulation. The timing needn't be identical. Anything between a day to a year's difference. What matters is that these chemicals flow uninterrupted between them. It keeps their ovaries functional. Allows one sister's Chevalier to impregnate the other, and vice versa. It's why two Queens always gravitate to each other." He winks. "You'll notice that Diva was always lured to you, or you to her. At the Zoo. In Russia. In Vietnam. In France. It's the call of blood. The two must stay together, in life as in death."

Saya's pulse skitters up the side of her neck. She feels queasy and light-headed. "What if—one Queen dies?"

Nathan's expression seesaws between smugness and secrecy. The smugness wins out. "After one Queen kicks it, her pheromones die with her. In her absence, the surviving Queen's body begins—how shall I put it?  _Overcompensating_." He lays a hand on her forehead. "Any dizzy spells lately? Increased appetite? High libido? Blue roses blossoming out the wazoo?"

Saya swats his hand off. "How are blue roses relevant?"

"Ex _cuse_  you!" The sunlight throws a glittery halo around his head, transforming him into a patron saint of petulance. "Blue roses are how a Queen telegraphs  _availability_. Why d'you think they always appeared around Diva?"

"I thought—"

"What? It was for  _The Aesthetic_?" He snorts. "I guess decades of stress precluded them growing around  _you_. But that's  _entirely_  your fault. Off on crazy vendettas like some pint-sized Iniga Montoya…"

Saya ignores the jibe. "So why have the blue roses appeared now?"

"A sign of  _Superovulation_. With Diva gone, your body is revving up for conception. With  _any_  Chevalier handy. Even Haji."

A chill goes down Saya's spine; her mouth tastes of bile. Lifting her smoothie, she drains it in one swallow to get the taste out. The afterflavor clinging to her mind is harder to erase.

Because if Nathan is telling the truth…

"Of course, there's no  _guarantee_  you'll bear viable offspring," he goes on. "That's why Queens in the olden days took extra precautions. Raising the odds to  _fifty/fifty_. After their sister's demise, they took a tincture. A potion to keep the seed safely in the womb."

"A  _potion_?" Saya surfaces from her daze, and scowls. "You expect me to believe—"

" _Fifty-fifty,_  I said. By no means a guarantee." Nathan shoulders back in his seat with a carelessness that is calculated to provoke. "Don't pretend you're not interested. You're clutching that glass so tight it'll  _explode_."

Saya stares. Her glass is cobweb-cracked. Chagrined, she lets go.

"This tincture," Nathan says, "isn't some old-fangled fertility drug. Its ingredients are rare as black pearls. And in high doses?  _Toxic_. Queens only took a thimbleful. Safely diluted. Anything else chances death or illness."

"And you  _conveniently_  have this tincture?"

"I do." Under her skeptical look, he beams with bright-eyed brazenness. "I'll only share if you're interested. The question is,  _are_  you?"

"I—"

Saya's larynx is a tightrope, the words wobbling for balance as they crawl across it.

_Yes. No._

There is too much information to digest at once. And she isn't sure if she believes Nathan.  _Lying liar who lies_ , isn't that what Kai calls him?

Yet images pop and burst in her mind like bubbles. Sunlight pouring from the crumbling spaces of Diva's crenelated tower, pale slats of it falling on ancient stone and clusters of blue roses. Bright fingerlings of flame and bullets stitching a zigzag path across blood-splattered elephant grass. Saya charging through the mud and spume of a battlefield in Vietnam, sword upraised. Sayumi and Sayuri in the rubble of the Met, rain falling in rivulets down their faces, wet pink anemones of mouths open in laughter. And the girls as adults, dancing at the shoreline, the salty bite of late-night seaside strong in the air. Haji's cool fingers twining through Saya's as she plays the piano, his cool lips sealing like a pledge to her own.

Snippets in time: could-haves, should-haves, might-haves.

She whispers. "I—"

From inside the villa, the alarm sounds off.  _Front door._  She hears the tread of measured footsteps, followed by Haji's quiet voice. "Saya? Are you awake?"

Nathan's teeth bare themselves in predatory points. "Well, darling?  _Are_  you?"

She glances down. In a magician's sleight of hand, a corked vial has appeared in his hand. Inside, the liquid is pale purple. Cloudy with shimmering particles.

A catastrophe in a bottle?

Or a cure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho don't do it—
> 
> Oh muh gawd...
> 
> The plot kicks into high gear next chapter. Expect angst, action and Tórir making his move.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Your feedback is the lifeline of this tale, so if there's areas you wish I'd improved/addressed in detail, don't hesitate to let me know! Review, pretty please :)


	25. Cipher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, guys!
> 
> The plot goes haywire at this point- with angst-trains colliding left and right. Nonetheless, I hope it's enjoyable angst. Or at least semi-entertaining. CW for violence and gore toward the end, as Saya ends up in a combat situation with Tórir. Also getting into the meat of the discrepancies in hers and Haji's relationship, which will begin highlighting themselves in a big way from hereon out. Melodrama and misery ahoy!
> 
> As always, I am thrilled and gratified by the feedback y'all continue to leave for this tale. Your suggestions mean a lot to me, and keep me motivated to finish this monstrosity, so if there's certain areas you wish I'd focus on more, please let me know!
> 
> Now on with the fic. Review, pretty please!

It takes an hour to pry Nathan away from Haji and shove him out.

Thrumming with restless energies, Saya wanders the villa. The Chevaliers' voices filter through the music room: Nathan's singysongy nonchalance rolling off the flat surface of Haji's quieter tones.

Listening in, she learns more about Haji's time with the  _Philharmonic_  than she'd ever gotten from the twins. The whirlwind tours. The contracts. The security details. The ever-fluctuating schedules. Nathan's words flow loose as always; he barely shuts up. Haji, answering more sparingly, keeps his demeanor at its most unreadable, yet the carefully-cultivated distance doesn't appear to be dislike. More a weary tolerance.

 _He's comfortable around Nathan,_  Saya realizes.

_Why?_

Why, indeed. The vial—Nathan's tincture—sits in the pocket of her dress. Such a tiny thing. Yet it feels charged with portent.  _Drink me,_  it urges, like the potion in Alice in Wonderland.

And like Alice, each time Saya thinks about it, she trips down a rabbit hole of bafflement. Her conversation with Nathan replays through her brain, hope and disbelief blooming like white roses painted with red, then white, then red again, a febrile garden that overcrowds her skull.

_Thirty years with no Long Sleep._

_Daughters of my own._

_Mine and Haji's._

She can't make herself believe it. She is  _afraid_  to believe it. Yet every insecurity, every argument, every longing, funnels down her brainpain and straight into her womb. Sweat pops on her hairline.

God—what is she thinking? It's  _insane_. Nathan has told her, in the plainest language, about the brutality surrounding her own birth. How dare she perpetuate such a bloodline? Who should she  _want_  to? She's never once envisioned herself as a mother. Or had any opinion on children beyond  _Aw cute_  or  _Ew noisy_.

Why would she? Children represent a future, hope,  _life_.

Whereas Saya, years ago, has resigned herself to death.

 _But you're alive, sister,_  Diva says.

Saya winces. Dusty sunlight falls into the villa's windows. For a moment, clear as the floating motes in the air, she sees Diva reaching toward two cocoons.

_Goodbye…_

Blinking, Saya dispels the vision. A grief closer to anguish seizes her, and then an acidic tide of rage, and fear and guilt and confusion and oh God, what is she going to do? The vial grows heavier with each second.

Gritting her teeth, she goes to Haji's antique Victrola. Slides in a record—Mendelssohn's  _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ —and cranks up the volume dial. The blatting music cuts into Haji and Nathan's conversation. They glance at her through the music room, Nathan fizzing with amusement, Haji's own irony a muted twitch of lips.

Saya meets their gazes and smiles sweetly. "Goodbye Nathan."

" _We-e-e-ell_ ," Nathan drawls. "I guess I'll see myself out."

"I guess you will."

"Keep my advice in mind, loveling." He winks slyly. "Tick-tock, tick-tock."

Saya flinches but doesn't waver. "We'll see about that."

He smirks, then performs a deep obeisance: bending at the waist, a palm across the chest. It gives Saya a strange shock of déjà vu. Tórir did nearly the same thing yesterday at the marketplace.

"My Queen," he says.

"…Go away now."

Once he's exited the villa, the tension in the air disperses. Sighing, Saya turns off the Victrola. Haji, a column of dark stillness at the doorframe, meets her eyes with a sedate veneer but a glint of humor in his eyes. "Perhaps, next time, I should do the same."

"Play the Victrola?"

"Or cymbals. Nathan rarely takes a hint—unless it is loud enough."

"Then why make him your manager?"

"Expedience." Somber. "And I owe him a debt."

"Huh?"

Haji's gaze shades. "After the Option D bombing at the Met… it was Nathan who dug me out of the rubble. He pieced me back together."

Shock twists in Saya's gut. " _He_  did?"

"Yes. For whatever reason."

 _Maybe he was saving you for me,_  Saya thinks—and nearly flushes at the double-meaning. Quietly, she asks, "Were you scared?"

"During the bombing?"

"Being at his mercy?"

Briefly but perceptibly, she can see Haji weighing his habitual honesty against a strict degree of self-censorship.

"Yes," he admits at last. "I was not in a position to defend myself. Much less move. But I knew you had made it out, and that gave me… not peace, exactly. But fortitude. I was determined to endure that wait—and any of Nathan's machinations."

Saya's throat tightens. Whenever he speaks about her, so simply and trustingly, as the nexus of his entire world, she has to fight tears. In the war, it was the same: a pledge hidden beneath ordinary words. She'd taken it... not as her due, but as something for her use, like her sword or her strength.

It is different now. He is evolving beyond her supplicant; she is no longer simply his Queen. Some days it is a delight, other days an uncertainty. Their roles are changing as surely as they are, a storm that unsettles both their equilibrium.

How can she introduce children into that? What if it's a disaster waiting to happen?

She tries to dispel the thought.

"And those, um, 'machinations'?" she says. "Did they include him becoming your manager?"

"I suspect they are a mere stepping stone. I have never understood his motives. But—" The low-key equivalent of a shrug. "It is why I am here."

_Why I am here._

With her.

An unexpected gratitude sends shivers down Saya's spine. Her eyes soften on his, letting him see the trend of her thoughts. Memories of last night twist tantalizingly between them.

In the next beat, in a one-step-two-step like the mechanism of two clockwork dancers in a music box, they come together.

Haji's arms pass around her, his loom softening into a nuzzling embrace. Sighing, Saya tips her head back. Then his mouth catches hers and the sigh cracks into a moan. The kiss barely breaks before it renews. Shivering, she cups his face in her widespread hands, feels his fluttering pulse. Smooths her fingers down his nape, across fine hair that feather into cool skin. The need to touch him is a thirst.

"Saya," he breathes, his hands cradling her body with worship, a splay of fingers from breasts to ribcage to hips, urging her closer like a dance but dirtier. And like a dance, her body melts into a  _tango-voleo_  of voluptuousness, all her weight balanced on her tiptoes and everything in her vibrating with the plucked string of excitement.

It is always this way. A solid superstructure of love, overlaid by a lust-beset wildness. The stormy dichotomy of past-present only intensifies the scary potential for shipwreck.

Yet it intensifies, too, the joys of smooth sailing.

"Did you sleep up all right?" Haji whispers.

"Mmm." Her smile is a peek-as-boo of shyness. "Like taking laudanum."

"Without the constipation, I hope."

Lightly, she slugs his arm. "We need to work on your patter."

"Oh?"

"GI issues aren't my idea of swoony romance."

"I see." He is plainly trying not to smile. "What would you prefer?"

"I dunno." Balanced on one foot, the other playfully popped, she loops a finger into the buttonhole of his coat. "You could tell me I look blooming, and smiling, and pretty. Your sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips…"

His almost-smile becomes a full one at the shared recognition.  _Jane Eyre_ , read beneath the soft glaze of rainfall at the Zoo, decades ago. "With radiant hazel eyes?"

"New-dyed, I suppose."

"I hope not." He circles her closer. "Your eyes are your own. I would change them for nothing."

 _Oh_ , she thinks, a giddy flush curling down her body. "What about the rest of me?"

"Even less."

Always a man of few words, Haji. Yet the very matter-of-factness is an admission of purest love. Her pulse flutters, already at the heights of swoonyville, no romance necessary.

Head resting against his chest, she smiles. "I've got a half-mind to drag you back upstairs."

"Only half?"

Embarrassment is a heat-fuzz across her cheeks. "I'm, um, pretty sore after last night."

"That can be remedied."

"Oh?"

Haji's voice darkens, alongside his gaze. A sultry look? A spellbinder. "There are virtues in kissing it better."

 _Oh oh oh._ The tips of her ears burn, and the surface of her skin. She soothes it with a kiss—cool on hot, like cream with a gulp of steamy buttered rum. Draws back only to swipe her tongue across his lower-lip, the sunlight capturing the heightened vision of his face: the heavy eyelids, the dizzily blue gaze, the soft mouth in the sculpted frame of his starved-looking face.

Then she smiles, and sinks to her knees.

Afterward, when Haji has returned the favor, with lapping, luscious, lascivious interest, she sprawls with disheveled serenity on the couch, her skirt crumpled around her thighs. Her Chevalier kneels by her feet, jealous of letting go, head like a sleek black cat resting in her lap. She smiles at the purr resonating from his throat.

"Haji?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"For last night. And today." She sinks her fingers into the tapestried spread of his hair. "The stirfry and cookies. The roses."

"You saw my note?"

"Mm." Sitting there, sedately blank, memory is slow to return. "What did you mean, 'called away'? Did something happen?"

Pensive, Haji rubs his cheek against her thigh. "There was troubling news."

Saya's languor fades. Frowning, she sits up. "What do you mean?" Her first thought is to Kai, and the twins. "Oh God. Did something happen at Omoro?"

"Not Omoro." He hauls in a measured lungful of air, and tips his eyes to hers. "It was a memo from Red Shield. Joel's heart surgery is scheduled for today. His secretary wished to leave provisional instructions, in case—"

"In case?"

The expression on his face, sad, somber, fills her with dread. He is still holding her. She lets him. But the radioactive melt of pleasure has already curdled into tension.

"It is an aortic repair," Haji says. "The procedure is not without complications. Should something go awry, Joel wished to speak with David and Kai."

"But not me?"

Haji's lips purse together. And realization sparks into a bright flame of anger. "You didn't  _tell_  me?"

"It was before dawn. You were asleep."

" _Not_   _hibernating_!"

"Saya—"

"How could you do that!? Not tell me about something so dire—"

"Not dire. Saya—it was a brief meeting. For protocol's sake. If it were something worse, you know Red Shield would call you directly."

"Or would you take the call yourself, since  _my_  opinion wasn't needed?"

"Of course not." Troubled, he lifts a palm to caress her cheek. "I intended to inform you as soon as you were awake. But unless there was an emergency, there seemed no sense in worrying you."

His tone is so piteously earnest. Yet her anger is simmering too high to be appeased. A sense of... not suffocation, but imbalance that keeps renewing itself.

Queen and Chevalier in the past, lovers in the present, yet their intimacy is still by no means equality. How can it be? He has time, a life, a network—all the requisites to be a full person. Whereas she only has three years, a former secret weapon of a nearly-defunct organization with no fallback, no future.

The circumstances of her Awakening make it worse. As fragile and volatile as her mental state is, Haji has redoubled his protectiveness. For her best interests, yes. But how can they be partners when she has the pedestal of Queen but no power, a life of indulgences but no agency?

It isn't that he's caging her. Far from it. But his very solidity in the world—in his  _self_ —is a reminder of her own precariousness.

Again, she thinks of Nathan's tincture.

_Consolidate your place._

How are daughters remotely tied to place? Carrying them  _killed_  Diva. And her sister was crazy. Who knew why she was so fixated on children?

_Because the only sovereignty she could win was through her body?_

Her body—and therefore her time in the world. Free for thirty years to live as she pleased, love as she pleased. Free from the Long Sleep that left her dependent on her Chevaliers for protection.

Frowning, Saya nudges Haji away. Shakes down her skirt and rises to her feet, smoothing back damp licks of hair. Haji straightens too, but more slowly. His gaze—at once pleading and reproachful—is hard to bear.

"Saya…"

She doesn't look at him. Bitterness edges into her voice like a blade, "Is it because I'm crazy that you don't tell me important things anymore? Or are you just taking a page from Joel's book?"

"Joel?"

"Our Joel. From the Zoo." She fights the burn of encroaching tears. "He bought you as a toy for me. I guess it's karmic that you treat me the same way now."

"Saya— _no_." He tries to take her shoulders, but she jerks away. She can feel his wretchedness rising, not like a needle into the red but a slow heaviness of fog that makes a whisper of his voice. "Saya, the last thing I want—have  _ever_  wanted—is to treat you as a toy. I am sorry I did not tell you about Joel. I should have considered your feelings. But it was not done to—to shut you out. We simply did not think it was a crisis."

"Oh? Or were you afraid I'd lose my mind and become a  _crisis_  myself?"

"Saya—"

Misery crushes her chest. She doesn't let herself look at him. "Sometimes I wonder… if this is a second chance, or a swap."

"A swap?"

"Sometimes I feel like I've ended up no better off than Diva. All the playtime in the world. But no purpose."

She knows the blunt statement will shock Haji. Hurt him. But it is also the truth.  _Her_  truth, at any rate, and the lens that colors her reality.

At the window, sunlight spangles across the slice of sea. Its color is the same glittery purple as the tincture in her dress pocket. Slipping a hand inside, she touches it furtively. "We both grew up in cages, Diva and me. In a way, we never left them. Hers was her insanity. And mine..."

Haji stays silent, not finishing it for her. Refusing to let her say that her life is a cage.

She looks at him then. His face holds the complex substructure of despair. Not for himself, but  _her_. Yet it does nothing to bring them closer. Her own strangeness is always like rime on the glass between them.

Again, she thinks back on Nathan's words. She has no idea if he was telling the truth. Even if he was, babies aren't going to solve anything. Not forever. Thirty years awake is a small consolation to what she truly wants. Her own personhood. A rich life, with Haj's love and his company as long as they both remain in the world.

Yet it's more than what Diva got.

She whispers, "While you were gone… Nathan told me some things."

Haji frowns. "What?"

As steadily as she can, she relates everything to him. About her mother. About Chiropterans and their blood. About Queens and Chevaliers. About the chance for children.

She expects Haji to be shocked, or at least curious. But once she is finished, he glances away. A fine thread of tension draws his brows together. He doesn't appear to be mulling the information over. He is  _stewing_ , as Dad might've said. Bubbling with something almost like anger.

"What is it?" Saya asks.

Haji's face swiftly recomposes into a flatline. "Do you truly believe that rot?"

 _Rot?_  She is stunned. "Shouldn't I? I mean—Nathan's hardly  _honest_. But he'd gain nothing from lying. Not about this."

"I disagree. He'd gain a great deal from disrupting your life with drama."

"Haji—"

" _Or_  making you fall ill. For no reason other than to laugh in your face." He sighs, with the old overtones of exasperation from their Zoo days. "Saya. This  _potion_. You have no idea what it contains. You cannot drink it simply because he claims it is a cure-all."

"I  _know_  it's not. But what's the harm in trying? If it means thirty years of staying awake—"

"You have never wanted to be a mother."

He says this flatly, a stark summation that betrays nothing of his interior—even as it pierces hers. Why is he acting this way? So closed-off beneath the veneer of courtesy, the way he'd been that night at the Met. As if she is swandiving into…

Realization uncoils inside her. "You don't think I should have children!"

Haji shakes his head, his troubled eyes never leaving hers. "You have just freed yourself from a terrible burden. You cannot throw away your life for—"

"It's my  _choice_!"

"To be shackled to more duty? To play mother to two potential problems when you could instead be enjoying your life, with freedom and options—"

"You sound like this is some awful last resort!"

"No. I think it is a misguided obsession for crossing off everything on your checklist of  _normalcy_ , just to say you can."

She rears up with renewed anger. "There's no  _checklist_!"

"No?'

" _No_." Taking a breath, she forces the emotions down. It isn't easy—she is full of stubbornness, and a deep-down defensive itch. But she needs him to  _understand_. To prove that whatever her failings, she is desperate to be engaged to this life. Devoted to him, in a way she cannot prove except with action.

Moving closer, she skims her fingertips from his shirtsleeve to his hand. Gestures of girlish persuasion, stolen from TV shows and  _Cosmo_  articles. But the emotions are real enough. Haji's head lowers a notch, his eyes at once wary and soft on hers. Dust motes dance in the sunlight around their bodies, and she senses the erratic joules of energy pouring off him.

Not hostility but pleading.

She pleads her case in turn, "Our time together is so short. Practically nothing. That's why I want to give you something worthwhile. Thirty years of my time. And… a part of myself."

"Saya." Helplessly, he brings her hand to his lips. Kisses it with pensive tenderness. "Can't you trust me when I say you are enough?"

It is exactly what she knew he'd say, and that makes it worse.

"How can I be?" She jerks away. "Half the time, I'm never there. And when I am, all I do is upset you and confuse you. I'm all f-fucked up inside."

"Saya—"

She gives him a harsh look. "Maybe  _that's_  why you can't stand the idea of children. They might be like me. Awful and vicious and crazy."

"That is not true. If you were—and please remember, crazy is  _your_  word—then your life would be vastly different."

"Like Diva's, you mean."

He doesn't refute that. "You are not Diva. Children were what  _she_  wanted. I want you to think clearly about what  _you_  want."

"I want  _this_!"

"You want the  _idea_  of it."

"That's not fair! You don't get it at all!" A sob catches in her throat; she forces it back. She refuses to dissolve into tears in front of him, not when it would too easily be construed as manipulation. Yet the longing is a salty sea inside her. Unconsidered except as a ticket to thirty years of freedom, the babies— _theirs_ —are suddenly as real to her as Haji himself.

But also real as  _Diva_ —the miracle and madness of her.

Saya could cherish them as Diva never got to cherish her own children. The way Diva  _herself_  was never cherished.

She whispers: "I know it's hard for you. Waiting for thirty years for someone so… unstable. But Haji—" Her voice breaks. "It's not easy for me either. Living in this limbo. Not really here but not really gone. I need something solid. Something the two of us can share—until I catch up to where you are."

"Saya." The rigidity in his shoulders melts. He takes her face in his hands. "I am right here."

"No."

"Not no. I  _am_. I understand what you mean."

"You  _don't_. Otherwise you wouldn't talk me out of this. You wouldn't treat me like I don't know my own mind."

"Saya—"

She has no idea what he's going to say. She doesn't care. It just condenses down to one word:

 _No_.

The tears are verging on meltdown. She wrenches away violently, swatting his hands aside before racing out the villa's door with a bang.

* * *

_Where are you off too, sweet Saya?_

Tórir is perched by the railing, squinting in the shimmer of sunlight. Saya, emerging from the villa's chrysalises, has taken off down the stone pathway to the beach.

Weeks' worth of rain has yielded a pure blueness of sky and a rich freshness of air. Soaking in these glories, Tórir revels in the unexpected glimpse of a third.

This far inland—away from the villa, its atmosphere jangling unpleasantly with the presence of the  _blodprinsen_ —he'd hoped for strategic distance, but also a chance just like this.

He knows it is a risk. If the Red Queen's old Chevalier—no doubt surveilling the territory—finds him, then his troubles will be infinite. Worse, Saya's own sense of recognition ( _haragei_ , as they call it here) is highly attuned. If he does not want to frighten her off, he will have to be patient. Hide his true intent. And then, take from her everything the Queens of years past stole from him.

_Patience._

_Save your wrath for when you truly reveal yourself._

_Or when she does._

Then it hits him. Watching Saya flit down the steps, it abruptly, crashingly hits him:

She is  _alone_.

He can't spot that tiresome Haji. Can't sense the dissonant blood-music that heralds the  _blodprinsen_. She is well and truly on her own. Her body is a bright fingerling of flame in spring colors. Tears shine at the cups of her eyelids. Her legs propel her furiously across the beachhead, little feet kicking up glittery puffs of sand.

Bare of shield, stripped of sword, devoid of shelter.

It is too good to be true.

Tórir aches to swoop in and snatch her up. But that is too hasty. Not here, so close to the villa. Not in broad daylight, the beach so crowded. Instead, he satisfies himself with shadowing her. She radiates anguish, from her head to her hurrying feet. Dodging past strollers at the beach, leaping across driftwood in the sand, sidestepping a skateboarder performing tricks along the walkway—her every movement telegraphs it.

Yet her path glows in Tórir's brain with a near-imperceptible luminosity: footprints like flattened, misshapen stars on dirty soil. Past the beach she goes, left, right, left again, then up, up, up. Past the sidewalk, along the thoroughfare.

"Purple sweet potato popsicles, missy!" shouts an ice cream vendor at the corner street, surrounded by crowing children. "Cool you off in the heat!"

She frowns—tempted?—then shakes her head and keeps moving. Past the rustic simplicity of Asahigoaka Park, where a white-clad row of geriatrics go through  _tai chi_  forms. Up the cracked sidewalk where families flow in the opposite direction, hefting beach gear and jawing merrily. Across a parking lot, where the noon radiance makes the old cars glitter. A group of construction workers, squatting on a cigarette-break, call rowdily after her. She ignores them. It is as if the rest of the street is nonexistent to her.

She doesn't stop until she is at Gokukuji Cemetery. Here, all is trees and stone. A leafy green silence fills the space.

Dabbing at her teary eyes, Saya disappears past the gates.

Tórir follows.

He knows he should not. It is dangerous to accost a Queen at such moments. More dangerous still, if her Chevalier interrupts. Should that happen, it will spoil all the plans glowing in his skull just for  _her_.

Yet he cares not. Danger is always an attraction more than a detriment for him.

_I want… merely a crumb from her._

_A taste to whet my eyeteeth._

Ahead, Saya moves through rows of granite grave markers. Rays of sunlight glint off their crumbling geometry. Tórir hears the twittering of birds, the sawing swoon of wind. But there are no humans in the vicinity. Not in the entire stretch of the graveyard.

_How wonderful._

Drifting up the pathway, Tórir drinks in the solitary shape of her. Her skirt, with each three or four steps she takes, delineates the comely curves of her backside and the sleek lines of her thighs in evanescent sweeps of rose-delicate fabric. Her hair, silk and shadow, grades into a downy fuzz at her temples. At her shoulderblades, fibers of muscle twitch like the nervous flutter of a sparrow's wings.

But she is no sparrow. She is a little Queen sprung from the old, a living  _mise en abyme_  of memory in motion.

Tórir smiles, and goes after her.

_Let us see what you've got._

* * *

_I hate this I hate this I hate this._

Hormonal ravings. But the sentiment is heartfelt enough.

Seething with tears, Saya wanders through Gokokuji's cemetery, barely a stone's throw away from the villa. Her first impulse was to go to the beach. But even at its most desolate, she couldn't find total solitude. Too many strollers: locals, tourists, teenagers, families, out in the sunlight, enjoying the mild salty air.

Saya hadn't been able to look at the small children without something curdling inside her.

So she'd come here, to the heart of the cemetery, where all is quiet and dead and still. Sago palms and grand old  _fukugi_  trees guard the pathways with a green somberness. Dappled afternoon sunlight falls through their latticework of leaves, making a honey-gold inlay over the stone memorials.

The place reminds Saya not of a haunting-ground but a solemn paradise, its atmosphere seeping into her until she can rebuild a calm buffer around herself.

Or try to.

Her mind keeps winging around her argument with Haji.  _Checklist. Potential problems. Misguided obsessions._

How  _dare_  he? Doesn't he understand what a missed opportunity this is? The absolutely only children they could have— _ever_ —might be during this Awakening? Yes, children have never been in the cards for them. Yes, she's never imagined herself as a mother. But the prospect of thirty years by his side, with Kai and the others... that changes everything.

It makes it an  _emergency_.

 _You're being hasty,_  Diva warns.

_You can't drop a handful of bombshells in his lap and expect him to go along._

_Give it a few days. Let him think it over._

_Let_ yourself _think it over._

Better still, she should let Julia examine the tincture. What if it's toxic? What if this is Nathan's elaborate revenge for murdering her sister? Or worse, a cruel prank?

_Or what if it's real?_

As soon as she thinks it, that weird sensation from earlier returns: a woozy headrush as all the blood in her body pools to her womb. Her pulse marches on double-time: hope and terror. The conflict of emotions—the confluence of them—makes her dizzy. She's never had a challenge like this, a richness of choices that serve only to underscore what Diva lacked. The visions, the voices, her talk with the  _yuta_ … that makes it worse. There seems already an alien presence inside her, transforming her from inside out. Can a pregnancy purge it, atone for Diva's loss, remake her broken life?

Or is it Saya's own brokenness that the babies will benight? Out of sight, out of mind?

Inhaling raggedly, Saya steadies herself against a headstone.

 _God_.

Fighting Chiropterans is child's play compared to this.

In her dress pocket, her mobile rings. Without thinking, she answers. "H-Hello?"

" _Finally_!"

"Oh—Kai."

"Yeah, who else?! Why didn't you answer before? I've been trying to reach you for the past forty minutes!"

"Um. I was—" She has no idea what to say. How can she tell Kai about her conversation with Nathan, or her fight with Haji? About the chance for babies? She's afraid words will dislodge the fragile ovum of possibility before it burgeons into full-bodied truth. "What's wrong? Did you need something?"

"Saya—there's bad news. You need to come to Omoro."

"Why? What's happened?"

"It's better we talk in person. You need to—"

Saya doesn't hear the rest. Her instincts snap to alert. A crawling sense of déjà vu.

Someone is watching her.

The same someone from Sakurazaka Street. She recognizes the energy: a spiky current of menace. Like before, her body responds. Heartbeat accelerating. Muscle fibers twitching in her arms and legs. An acrid dump of adrenaline pouring into her gut.

And that same voice of primal command in the brain:  _Move_.

On the phone, Kai's voice is hoarse with distress, "Saya, come to Omoro. David and the rest are already there. We have to—"

"Kai. I need to go."

Switching off the phone, she stows it away. Her eyes go left and right, alert as a cat reading her surroundings.

_Who is that?_

Unlike before, she has no intention of fleeing. The reflex—maddening—is still present. She resists it. She's sick of jerking at strange shapes in the dark, breaking into gooseflesh at mysterious whispers, freezing at the slithers of would-be snakes at the corners of her eyes.

Man, beast—whatever this thing is, she needs to run it down.

Outwardly, she stays calm. No flinching tremors or overt glances. She doesn't want to give the game away. Predators telegraph killing intent the same way prey exude a caught-in-headlights shock at being in their sightlines. But Saya has learnt years ago to condition herself against giving off either signal.

Sakurazaka Street's disaster was a fluke.

This will be—for her enemy—a fatality.

Wind stirs the treetops. She wanders the stone paths, absorbed in the lovely antiqueness around her. Discreetly, her hand dips into her dress pocket. Not for Nathan's tincture, but for the onyx Hideaway blade that Haji had given her shortly after that night.

She curls two fingers around the handle, prepared to whip it out if action is required.

The energy in the air burgeons. Despite the bright sunlight, it reminds Saya of being trapped inside a cave: a dirty, congealing darkness that layers her skin like an oil-slick.

Then she hears footsteps.

They echo off the stone walkways: quiet and measured. As they grow closer, so does the dark energy tingeing the air. Through the green foliage at the treeline, a figure materializes. A man, in nondescript jeans and a buttondown shirt, sandals at his feet. Nothing unusual about him: he appears to be of average height and build, his face bisected in shadow by a broad straw hat. She can't make out his features or the color of his hair.

But he is, without a doubt, the epicenter of the staticky energy in the air.

Saya's eyes narrow.  _Who is he?_

Has he been lurking here—or did he follow her? Why hadn't she sensed him sooner? The questions buffet her brain, while his disturbing energy makes her skin crawl with a visceral chill.

Fear, or anticipation?

In her pocket, the phone rings again. She puts in on silent. Pauses by a  _Sekid_ _ō_  grave marker, pretending to read its faded engravings. In her peripheral vision, the man drifts closer. Just before he gets within twenty feet of her, Saya moves again. Past the rows of graves, past the mausoleums both modest and elaborate, toward an obscure path that snakes up a hilltop, to be enveloped by the forest in a verdant, smooth-running darkness.

On cue, the figure follows her.

Saya picks up her pace. Sunlight ghosts off the thick trees, but doesn't penetrate to the floor, which is carpeted in dead cicadas. Treading across their exoskeletons, she feels as if she is walking across a graveyard of brittle bones.

The figure pursues, feet barely crunching across the strewn cobblestones. She has no idea what he wants. No idea if he is recon for an enemy, or bait intended to lure her toward a trap where a team will ambush her.

It doesn't matter.

Whoever the man is, her gut says that he is trouble.

The pathway branches westward, narrowing, winding, hemmed by sinewy strangler-figs. Dark finger-shaped fronds lap at her body. Saya keeps a steady clip, listening to the stranger's footsteps behind her.

She wonders if he is armed. Firearms are severely restricted in Japan, but Okinawa has enough ex-military at its shores that obtaining a gun isn't as big a hassle as many might believe. She hadn't seen any tell-tale bulges under his clothes. Blades, maybe?

Only one way to find out.

With unexpected speed, she whips around the corner. There is a grove of fig trees there, branches hanging with knobbed roots, their barks shaggy with rust fungus. A hushed silence envelops the place: barely a breath of wind or a treble of birds. The figure chases after her, startled at having lost her so quickly.

_Now._

From her perch among the branches, Saya drops down on him from above.

At the last split-second, the man darts out of her way with preternatural alacrity. Like a cat.

Like a ...Chiropteran.

The leaf-strewn ground rises up to meet Saya: she rolls at the last moment and spins to her feet. But the brief lull is enough for her opponent to lunge at her, rotating his hips to swing a powerful kick at her head.

Saya catches his foot and drops him to the ground. Barely winded, he tumbles, rolls, and comes back on his feet in the same movement, facing her. She has knocked his hat off. By the refraction of the watery green sunlight, his face is visible.

Saya lets off an indrawn gasp of horror.

The head… isn't a head at all. It is completely smooth, bald as eggshell, the features seemingly melted off from forehead to chin. Bare slits of eyes, two crude holes for nostrils, and a larger one for the mouth. It reminds her of photographs of burn victims. Except there are no scars on the flesh. Nothing at all, that would connect the stranger to a living person.

This isn't a face, Saya realizes crazily, but a mask.

A cipher.

"Who—what are you?" she says. "What do you want?"

The man—creature—doesn't answer her. But in the dimness, his eyes glow blue.

Just like  _Diva's_.

Then he lunges at her.

Saya sees him coming in slow-motion. Each split-second melting into the next, yielding a gruesome transformation. His eyes expand from slits into huge opaque orbs, almost multifaceted, like a creature who navigates by ultraviolet vision. The uneven orifice of his mouth spans to cover half his face, studded with rows of sharp teeth. A pair of canines, long and white, curve below the jawbone.

For a moment, leaping airborne, suspended in a heartbeat's scrutiny, he reminds Saya of a snake swooping at its prey.

Then he is upon her, slamming her to the ground in a frenzy of muscle and teeth.

The impact is bone-rattling. Grunting, Saya twists under his weight; they go tumbling down the slope, carpeted in dead leaves, the creature angling for her throat. On reflex, Saya thrusts a forearm under his windpipe, forcing his head away. Her other hand scrabbles for the Hidedaway knife in her dress.

She whips it out, slashing elliptically. A red line opens across the creature's chest. Blood sprays. The creature  _roars_ —like thunder caught in a hundred stormclouds.

It isn't agony. It is  _triumph_.

Then he is upon her again, his weight colliding with hers, shoving her back across the damp soil with its moldy layer of leaves. For a moment, Saya is turtled, hands flailing and legs scissoring as she tries to fight him off. Her knee slams into his flank with vicious force. At the same time she slashes with the knife again, sunlight catching in a dull patina across the onyx. It slices into the tendons at the creature's shoulder.

He snarls, and she throws him off.

Her heart is stumbling over itself: a reaction not unlike when she'd first seen a Chiropteran at her highschool.

What is this creature?  _Who_  is he? His proximity makes her senses seasaw crazily. And he is  _fast_. Everything in his movements suggests a fighter's grace honed to lethal sharpness.

Whereas Saya's own reflexes, despite her daily regimen, feel at half-speed.

Or has it always felt that way? Since her Awakening, it seems like the stagnation has made her logy and stupid.

_Never mind that._

_Focus on the threat._

In a twinkling, she is on her feet. The creature mirrors her, almost playfully. His eyes, like funhouse lights of neon blue, meet hers.

For a moment, in a déjà vu identical to the vision at the  _Philharmonic's_  concert, Saya sees the moment overlapping with a hundred others. Moments independent of her memory, a glittering cascade of them pelting her like shards.

_…A small dark-haired woman with eyes like hers, poised like a figurehead at the prow of a longship. A band of warriors, with weapons and wiles, disembarking at the fringes of a tropical green island. Nightfall, and rain hitting at a powerful slant, as they converge on a sparse entourage of soldiers guarding a tall hooded man. And the trap sprung, victory crumbling to defeat, enemies pouring from their hiding places, countless, savage, slashing, until the tiny band's weapons are not enough, and they fall, bones snapped, throats slit, bodies trampled, and the small dark-haired woman fights on, facing off against a foe with the same faceted blue eyes and teeth like white spears as blood spills and thunder rolls and a burst of lightning delineates the woman in silver as she lunges with two blades upraised and her face blind and vengeful and screaming…_

The vision passes, leaving Saya disoriented, shaken.

It is the opening her opponent needs.

She feels more than sees him coming: a swift-moving blur that knocks her down with one crippling punch. Saya flies across the grove, slamming into a tree trunk. Splinters crack and birds go flying. She sags a moment, stunned.

In the next beat, she catapults herself at her enemy.

They collide in mid-air. And the attack becomes a carnage.

There is no time to think. Only to act. They trade blows, a blistering hailstorm: right to the body, left to the body, slash to the arm, kick to the skull.

It isn't like fighting any of Diva's Chevaliers. Or... more like fighting all of them at once. Phantom's theatrical sadism melded with Solomon's dancelike evasiveness; James' steely precision colliding with Amshel's implacable solidity. By themselves, each of man was a fair match for her. But she'd always held her own.

Not so here.

It is as if he can read her mind—she can't surprise him. Can't overpower him. He doesn't signal, or stumble, or slow. The violence is a steady escalation, a strategic attrition.

Worse, she can't get a deep blow and use her blood. Twice, thrice, she slashes the red-slicked Hideaway across his body.

Each time, he evades, letting off a terrible ululation that only fuels his onslaught.

Bit by bit, Saya's adrenaline leeches away, so each blow aches like bullets. As the battle unspools, exhaustion sinks in. Her bones feel like lead: every movement she makes is devoted not to knocking him down, but keeping herself standing.

Then her opponent catches her with a clubbing elbow to the throat.

Saya gags, her larynx nearly snapping. The Hideaway blade skitters to the ground. Off-balanced, she can't do more than raise a hand when the next blow comes: a straight-on punch to the belly that rearranges internal organs in a shrieking aria of agony and sends a gout of blood spraying from her mouth.

The world is glazed to a strange pinkness: trees and soil and sky and sunlight seen through rose-colored glasses of the ugliest shade.

Slumping to her knees, she falls sideways to the ground.

Her opponent approaches her slowly. Through her reeling vision, he changes shape again. The serpentine face smoothing once more to a cipher. The body, of medium ordinariness, reforming into a physique dense with muscle: a broad torso tapering to a supple waist and powerful thighs. His footsteps boom like thunder across the underbrush.

With casual contempt, he prods her ribs with his toe. "Finished already?"

It is barely a whisper, indecipherable over the staticky ringing in her ears. Yet vaguely familiar.

_Where have I heard that voice?_

When she doesn't answer, the prod becomes a sharp gut-blow.

Groaning, Saya curls up against the white-hot pain exploding through her. Her mouth is filled with corrosive blood and her bowels feel heavy, like she's swallowed a rusted anchor that is trying to drop out.

Snatching a fistful of her blouse, her attacker hauls her up. Limp, Saya dangles a foot off the ground. Her skull is a weighty ball of pain, lolling sideways.

Staring into the creature's eyes offers nothing. Their flat aspect shines only with glee. Like a malicious child ready to slice a pretty butterfly open, and learn whether its insides will yield a fanfare of blood or something putrid with rot.

"Not yet," he whispers. "You are not finished yet. Am I not correct?"

Saya's lips move without sound. Her body is a rictus of agony.

The stranger's eyes narrow. He drags her closer. "Answer me. Am I not correct?" She shudders involuntarily when he puts his lips to her ear. "There is more inside you, yes? We have not finished, but barely begun."

"I—"

He  _slams_  her up against a tree trunk. Breath woofs out of Saya on a fine red mist. He crowds in close, one thigh wedged between hers. One hand encircles her neck; the other cradles her head, turning it this way and that, a wordless inspection like of a pony advertised as a thoroughbred.

"This cannot be all I am left with," he says. "Weak imitations. Queens unworthy of the title."

_Queens?_

Saya's eyes widen. The word is like catgut twining around her brain.

"Who—" Blood froths from her lips. "Who are you?"

The glowing-blue eyes squinch at her. Amused.

"Ask yourself the same question."

"Wh-what do you want?"

He presses closer. His body slides against hers. Saya feels the dampness of blood and the heat of her own revulsion. His erection is pressed with obscene matter-of-factness against her belly. Yet the entire focus of her sensorium remains on those blue eyes.

"I crawled out of Hell just for you," the stranger says. "I am here to give you a taste."

Déjà vu sluices down Saya's spine. Her breathing hitches. She'd had a nightmare like this, someone speaking the exact words, a sea of blood and mounds of skulls and Diva's deranged smile and snakes uncoiling and a monster trapping her in a kiss and oh God oh God oh God…

She struggles to escape the stranger's grip. His hand tightens on her throat. Saya hears her own breathing, muffled, interrupted. Her vision thinning and her consciousness sinking, against her control, but as all mass is meant to sink. Her mouth falls open, choking.

The stranger leans close. His cool lips cover hers. It isn't a kiss. He is aspirating her distress. Soaking it up like a sponge.

"I will pry you open," he promises, "Peel you apart layer by layer. Until you are everything I want."

"…"

"There is more inside you. I feel it." He nuzzles her bloodstained cheek. "You do as well."

He touches his tongue to each blood-splotched spot on her face: eyelids, cheekbone, chin, lips. She tries to twist her head away, but his fingers squeeze tighter on her throat. Black spots erupt. Saya's breaths—what little are left—come in jagged gusts.

"Feel your blood beating inside," he whispers, and laps at where her jaw smooths into neck. "Feel all that power and life begging to pour out. Ask yourself why you do not let it out—as she did?"

Saya arches, trying to pull away again. His words are meaningless: she hears nothing but the drumlike resonance of her faltering heart.

"It's so lonely without her." He sighs. "So empty. But you will do. After I shape you to my liking."

Saya can't speak. Can't  _think_. Her body is a stretched rack, full of pulse and pressure.

A lonely thought-fragment passes through her graying mind.

_I'm going to die._

In her ear, Diva soothes,  _No you won't._

_Let me help you._

From the clearing, there is a whistle of steel cutting air. A silver dagger darts out. It lands with a messy  _thwock_  in the stranger's arm. Howling, he jerks back. His grip loosens on Saya's throat.

It is the chance she needs.

One hand snatches the stranger's wrist, where his palm encloses her throat. She  _twists_  with all her might—sinews and bones popping. Her other hand changes in an outrush of instinct, reforming into a claw, the fingers splaying into a mottle of black scales, the nails extending into poniards that make Haji's look like stubs in comparison.

She thrusts them, point-blank, into the stranger's eyes.

There is a messy  _squelch_. The digits sink with a sickening ease, like into royal jelly. The stranger lets off a blood-curdling  _scream_.

Dropping her, he staggers back. Saya collapses in a heap against the tree-trunk.

Blinded, her opponent scrabbles at his eye-sockets. The orbs are ruptured and oozing blood. From the clearing, another dagger flies at him, sinking between his shoulderblades. He jerks as if electrocuted, one arm clawing behind him, trying to dislodge the dagger, the other scrabbling wildly at his eyes.

Over his shoulder, Saya sees Haji swooping in, a familiar dark shape. His energy overlaps the stranger's: a sharp sheeting of gray-blue ice.

The stranger feels it too. His scream this time isn't agony—but  _rage_. He reminds Saya of a child throwing a dangerous subspecies of tantrum, outraged at having his playtime interrupted.

But interruption or not, he doesn't stick around.

Blood dripping from both eyes, he exits in an erratic blur. The disturbed atmosphere in the air dissipates.

Haji has already reached Saya by then. Kneeling, he reaches out to steady her. His eyes—glassed darkly into byzantine and basalt—examine her face, splattered in blood, the lips and eyelids swollen.

"Saya." His voice is hard as stone over the deep well of concern. "Are you all right?"

"I-I think so."

"I sensed you were in danger. But I sensed  _him_  as well. Who was that man? A Chiropteran?"

"I don't know."

Her clawed hand is coated with the stranger's blood. Its scent is strangely familiar: shot through with something like  _home_.

Haji stares at the talon, so similar to his own. "How did you—?"

"I-I don't know."

Even as she speaks, the appendage is changing, dark-scaled one moment, a dainty curl of fingers the next. Only the coat of blood remains.

Haji's eyes map out the area. She can feel the conflicting impulses in him. To tend to her. To give chase. Then, with a mental shake, he draws back his coat-sleeve. Saya blinks when he brings his wrist close to her swollen lips. "Saya. Drink."

"I don't want—"

"You must." The hard smoothness of efficiency slips away. There is something indefinable on his face. Almost like grief. "You will need it."

"Need it—?"

"I tried to call you earlier. Kai and Red Shield did as well."

"Red Shield—?"

He doesn't answer, but presses his wrist to her mouth again. Something is  _off_  about him. Not just wariness over who attacked her, or anxiety over her injuries. He won't quite look her in the eye, his own gaze flitting away, out of her line of sight.

Pain fills Saya in a slough of muddiness. The itch to sink her fangs into his wrist is irresistible. To heal, grow strong, get her sword, and go after the stranger. To slice him up until he howls in surrender and tells her who he is. Another Chiropteran? An offshoot of D67? A Chevalier?

She has no idea.

Opening her mouth, she sinks in her eyeteeth where his veins pulse. Blood gushes in a steadying rhythm, and Saya sighs as it pours into her, her shocky breaths hitching into slowness. By degrees, the pain subsides. When it is—not gone, but tolerable—she draws away. A thin trickle slips down her mouth.

Reaching out, Haji thumbs it away. "Saya. We must leave here. I will contact David and have teams secure the area—until we find that creature. Then we must go to Omoro."

"Omoro?" Saya frowns dizzily, not sure she has heard right. "Why Omoro?"

Haji looks away. "Saya…"

" _Tell me_."

Defeated, he meets her gaze. "It is Joel. His secretary called an hour ago. The operation went poorly."

"Poorly?" Pain becomes not a slough but a stabbing all across her body. "What do you mean?"

"His heart stopped. Midway into the procedure."

Saya's own heart seizes up in her chest. "No.  _No_."

"I am sorry, Saya. Joel is dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(
> 
> RIP, Joel.
> 
> The rest of Act II will focus largely on the fallout from this event, with plenty of Red Shield business – in addition to Saya's brewing baby drama. Both issues will end up intersecting rather catastrophically toward the climax of the Act.
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you guys enjoyed! Comments and critiques are always welcome!
> 
> Review, pretty please!


	26. What If?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! Continuing the aftermath of Joel's death, and all the drama it entails. Warning for some blood and gore in the middle: Torir throws a temper tantrum of murderous proportions. Other than that, expect some Srs Discussions and Angsty Introspection from our heroes. You know how it goes.
> 
> As always, I am gratified and delighted by the feedback y'all continue to leave for this tale! I keep every comment in mind as I continue to shape the outline, so if there's certain areas you wish I'd expand on, do let me know!
> 
> Review, pretty please!

Omoro is closed for the day.

Light through the windows falls dim and chalky. The blue silk of the sun-washed sky has ripped open, the atmosphere once again murky with rain. The acoustics fill Saya's skull like radio static.

Standing by the window, she rubs her arm. Her wounds from the fight have healed. But there are still discolorations on her skin: red, purple, green, blue. Like the stained-glass mosaic in the villa's bedrooms.

Saya wishes she was there. Submerged in cool sheets, and sleeping off the bone-deep agony in her body.

And her heart.

Behind her, David asks, "You're certain he was a Chiropteran?"

He is perched at the counter stool. As always, he is fully functioning: the silver-haired veteran of a war that has taught him not to let the needle of tragedy pierce his tough exterior.

Yet his eyes are faintly red-rimmed. No one, Saya knows, was closer to Joel than he was.

Julia sits on the table across from him, its surface strewn with papers. Her laptop, displaying last-minute itineraries, throws a bluish glow across her pensive face. Dee leans beside her, arms crossed. A dark arrowhead of rain plasters to her T-shirt and darkens the knees of her aquamarine shorts. She'd been out on a jog before the bad weather—and worse news—had struck.

"If he held his own against Otonashi, he must be," she says. "The question is, how did he get here?"

"Maybe something in her blood triggered it?" Bleary-eyed and grim, Kai pours a cup of tea from the kettle boiling in the kitchen. "Sometimes they don't need to hear Diva's song to transform. Right?"

"Those circumstances are rare," Julia says. "Barely 0.5 percent."

"You said the same thing about the blue roses in the villa," Kai argues. "They should've been triggered by  _Diva's_  blood. Not Saya's. But they showed up anyway."

"I don't think it's as simple as Diva-this, Saya-that, Kai," Yuri says gently.

She is folded on the couch, fiddling with the end of her ponytail. Beside her, Yumi lolls heavily against the sofa-head, as if too miserable to bother sitting up. Their Chevaliers mooch around the pub, trying and failing to keep busy. Sachi plays  _Shima Uta_ on his guitar, softly and falteringly, messing up over and over in the same spot; V squats at a shelf to examine the luminescent blue shell of a coconut crab, perfectly preserved, touching its surface tentatively, as if it might spring to life.

Watching them, Saya wonders: how many times have they all gathered here? Dozens, it feels like. Yet the pub's interior, always glowing warmly from the colored rays of paper lanterns, has become polar-chilled.

Was it that way when they'd lost Dad?

She can't remember. A mercy, perhaps, that the full dimension of her grief has blurred over time, becoming a smudged space at the corners of her memory. Yet Joel's loss is different. Like the impact of a derailed train, his death will catalyze a series of events that they will be powerless to control, but which will leave unimaginable catastrophe behind.

In losing him, Red Shield has lost ten whole layers of sanity.

David asks, "Saya, do you remember anything unusual about the creature?"

Saya frowns. At the window, her reflection is visible against the shimmering rain. Her hair is a bird's nest of tangles, one eye still faintly swollen. Her fingernails are rimmed with red.

_"There is more inside you. I feel it. You do as well."_

"Saya?" David prompts. "Are you all right?"

"Mm." She returns to reality by degrees. "He was... unusual all over. Except not. He felt like a Chiropteran. He had the same strength and reflexes. Only—"  _More_. She draws in a breath. "I think he was a Chevalier."

A ripple of disquiet goes through the room. David's shoulders tense and Kai's knuckles whiten on his cup. In the periphery, the twins stir to attention.

"A Chevalier?" David echoes. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"I am. Everything about him suggested it. Except—"

"What?"

"His eyes. They were different from Diva's Chevaliers. Or any Chiropteran made from D67."

Kai frowns, "What do you mean, different?"

"They were  _blue_. Like..."

_Haji's._

_Or Diva's._

Perturbed, Julia takes off her glasses. "Saya, are you positive?"

She nods.

The other woman's gaze takes on a bright gleam of focus. "Such a case would be highly unusual. As if the Chiropteran wasn't created from Diva's genetic material, but yours."

"Or a Red Queen in general," Saya says.

"What?"

They stare at her. Self-consciously, she looks away. Trying to decide how crazy she is at the moment: the worn-out adrenaline seems to have left her at the bottom of a dark, dark well.

"When we were fighting," she says. "He spoke about Queens. Like he knew all about them."

"Knew about them how?" David asks.

"He complained about... being left to work with weak imitations. Queens who were unworthy of the title."

Kai's habitual squint deepens into a glower. "You don't think it was  _Nathan_ , do you? You mentioned he'd dropped by."

Saya shakes her head. "It didn't  _feel_  like Nathan. There was something about him. Something I'd sensed before."

"When?"

"Two months ago. At Sakurazaka street."

Glances pass from Kai to David, David to Julia, Julia to Dee, the twins' heads swiveling fractionally to each other and the boyish topography of their Chevaliers' bodies reforming into that of soldiers.

David says, "If that's true, we need to be vigilant. Once was a coincidence. Twice is a warning sign."

"You're saying, what?" Kai asks. "Something's after her?"

"Or someone. An organization, or a single threat—that remains to be seen." David's expression reflects concern beneath the surface of cyborgian calm. "I'll contact the main office. Post provisional troops at the villa."

"Good idea," says Dee. Like her parents, she's switched into operational default, methodically layering their defense until a strategy emerges. "I've already got a strike-team sweeping Gokukuji Cemetery with Haji. And we have a sample of this Chevalier's blood from Otonashi's hands. Our next step should be to investigate any deaths or disappearances in the area. If he's injured, he'll need to feed."

"Never mind that," snaps Yumi.

She and Yuri are on their feet, crackling with pent-up energy.

"We're gonna hunt him down" Yumi says. "Chevaliers give off a pheromone on the prowl. If he feeds, he'll make himself visible to us. And we can ambush him."

"Hold on a second!" Kai says. "We still don't know what this thing is!"

Yumi cracks her knuckles with a casual belligerence that Saya recognizes as a hand-me-down from Kai. "Once we haul him out of his hiding place, and stake him to a wall, we'll ask him."

"Yumi—"

"He's already followed Saya  _twice_ , Kai. If he hurts her again—"

"Yumi, Yuri, wait," Saya cuts in. The girls' defense, touchingly sincere, makes her eyes burn. But they can't afford to be careless. "Kai's right. He wasn't like any Chevalier I've fought before. Stronger, faster. Until we have more information, we shouldn't be hasty."

"Agreed," Dee says. "Right now, it's smarter to check for unusual activity in the vicinity. I'll have scouts looking for any newcomers to the island. Or businesses that could be a front for something shady."

"Shady?" Saya frowns. "You think... he was created at a facility  _here_? Made in a lab like the Schiff?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But it's smarter not to rule it out." Dee glances at her. "In the meantime, you should be placed in a secure location."

"We have a stronghold in Tokyo," David suggests. "We could transport her there."

"Mr. David!"

Saya understands the importance of vigilance. But she  _doesn't_  need to be stowed away like precious cargo. Everyone is so determined to treat her like spun glass lately. Like they've forgotten she can be strong.

"I'm of better use here," she says. "I can trace his scent. Once we're prepared, I'll help you track him down."

" _Or_  get hurt." Kai shakes his head. "Dee and David are right. If this Chevalier is dangerous, then we need to keep you safe."

"Kai—"

"At least until we figure out what he wants. Or where he came from."

"What if he tries to lure me out? What if he hurts one of you to do it?"

"We must take the proper measures to avoid that.

Haji's voice cuts in, quietly resonant.

The group glances around. Her Chevalier has returned, soundless in the rain-swollen ambiance. A gust of earthy air sweeps into the pub with him. His hair and clothes are sodden with it.

Kai snaps to alertness, "What'd you find?"

"Tracks leading to and from the beach." Wet tangles of hair are strewn across Haji's face. With a precise motion, he sweeps them aside. "There were other tracks at a cliffside near the villa."

This lurches against the air like a buoy hitting a wave.

"What are you saying?" Saya asks. "He  _followed_ me?"

"It seems he had intended to for some time." Haji's eyes magnetize hers. "He kept a perch at a remote area of the cliffs. Far enough to evade surveillance, but close enough for a Chiropteran to see into the grounds."

Cold spiders crawl down Saya's spine. "So he's been spying on me?"

"Yes. Possibly waiting to catch you alone."

"What for?" David asks. "To abduct her?"

"Or simply attack her." Against the grayed sheet of rainfall at the window, Haji is almost a silhouette. But Saya sees past his clean-cut profile, into the aurora of perturbed calm. "He could have made off with Saya, if he chose. Or killed her. Instead he engaged her in a fight. As if to test her."

_"There is more inside you, yes? We have not finished, but barely begun."_

Nausea gurgles. Saya swallows. "But why? Why take such a big risk?"

"One possibility might be to intimidate you," Dee muses. "To let you know he's dangerous, and close."

"But who— _what_  is he? Where did he come from?"

"We'll figure that out once our team examines his blood," Dee says. "For now, we need to keep you safe."

"Miss Dee—"

"I'll accompany you and Haji to the villa. Pack up what you need and leave the rest as it is."

"But—"

"She is right, Saya," Haji intercedes. "Until we learn what this creature is, and the extent of the threat he represents, you must take precautions."

"But if he's trying to intimidate me, then hiding means giving him what he wants!" There is a simmering anger in her chest that she resists, but also a fear-twisted backwash that spews out despite her best efforts. "If he's running amok, he'll attack people! He's probably already done so! The night Adam was hurt at the Bar Junket—what if it was  _him_?! The mother and daughter at Uruma—what if  _he_  had something to do with it? We can't wait for another casualty until we're sure!"

"We can't." David's lips compress. "But a body-trail can easily become a breadcrumb trail. If he makes another kill, we could get a read on his location."

"Mr. David!"

"I'm sorry, Saya. But unless he makes a reappearance, we're at a stalemate."

"You could use me as bait to lure him out!"

"Saya.  _No_." Haji stares at her imploringly. "It is too dangerous. We have no idea if he is acting alone, or if there is an organization backing him."

"We've dealt with organizations before! We've never hidden at the first whiff of trouble!"

"We have never acted without intel, or a proper plan, either."

"Then we'll have to make one up as we go along!"

"Only for you to get hurt—or  _killed_ —in the bargain!"

Haji, like her, is adamant by nature, even if that nature is quietly downplayed. But never before has he slammed a rebuke in her face with such harshness.

It startles her. Her Chevalier has seldom raised a word of argument to her schemes, no matter how haywire or harebrained. Her blood is his blood, and that blood does her bidding. Yet lately, she is cognizant of low-key insurgences, enacted not out of petulance, but as signifiers of a different perspective, a distinct voice that is gaining volume as the months pass.

It disorients her, because she'd asked them to be equals when they began. Yet she wasn't prepared to sacrifice her own self-sovereignty in the bargain. It makes her furious—even as she recognizes that the ugly feeling rises from leftovers of their past, the inherent lopsidedness of it.

She is too accustomed to holding him to different standards. Double standards.

Now he is redefining them on his own terms.

They stare each other down, airwaves of anger passing between them. Her family look pointedly elsewhere.

More quietly, she says, "I  _won't_  abandon the island while there's a Chevalier's lurking here."

"For the moment we have no choice," Haji says.

"There's  _every_  choice!"

"Not exactly," David cuts in, carefully neutral.

Saya turns. "What do you mean?"

"Our best chance is to head out within the next seventy-two hours. The window is small."

"Window?"

"For Red Shield to cooperate as a whole." He exhales. "With Joel gone, a lot of decisions will be deadlocked. At least until a new Joel is selected."

"Oh."

She has no idea what else to say. Hadn't Joel warned her about this, barely two months ago? Easy to forget, amidst the dramas that had cropped up. Silly, meaningless dramas. The indulgences of a spoilt child who didn't realize what an immense safety-net Joel's presence had embodied.

The disintegration of his health seems a terrible mirroring of the disintegration of Red Shield itself, until literally the heart of it has stuttered to a stop.

Gentler, Haji says, "You needn't decide everything today, Saya. But we should leave soon."

"We can move you to Tokyo by tomorrow," Dee suggests. "Joel's funeral will be held in Paris, three days from now. It isn't necessary for you to attend."

Stunned, Saya shakes her head. The idea of skipping the funeral literally floors hers.

_How could I miss that, when I've already missed so much?_

_When it's my fault that all this began in the first place?_

It occurs to her that she hasn't attended a funeral since the original Joel's, in 1883. Trauma has scrubbed the details of the event bare: she barely remembers the pre-formalities or the ceremony itself. And with Dad, and Riku, there were no bodies inter, and no time to mourn.

She'd done so piecemeal, and in private. Little icebergs of stillness in the slipstream of the war.

"I..." The words come in a daze. "I just realized. I have no clothes for the funeral."

Not a single black garment in her wardrobe. The summery clothes she'd bought at Makishi Market won't do. They feel all wrong for the occasion, and all wrong for her at all.

The trend of her thoughts— _Clothes? You're worried about clothes?!_ —appalls her. Yet the ordinariness of the thought is a pinprick to the numb bubble in her chest. It pops messily, and in the emptiness that fills itself like a headache of the whole body, a pressure rises to her sinuses and the backs of her burning eyes.

A tear drips down her cheek. Another follows, and a hundred more threaten to leak past the cracking wall of her composure.

Wincing, she turns away, "I'm sorry."

"Auntie Saya." Yumi and Yuri come forward, arms outstretched.

Saya waves them off. " _Please_. I'm—I'm fine."

Beside her, Haji radiates concern. His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn't touch her.  _Good_. She doesn't need his softness right now.

What's the point of it, when he refuses to support her where it counts?

David, poised awkwardly, clears his throat. Saya knows him well. Like her, he plays his cards close to the vest. They all do—the original survivors of the war. Yet, glancing from Haji to David to Kai to Julia, Saya knows their grief for Joel is burrowed deep. It will take its time to metabolize as the emotional replaces the intellectual reality, working at different rates through all their systems.

Strange that she'd be the first to crack.

Carefully, David says, "Pack what you need to. Once you're ready, we'll accompany you to Paris."

"All of us." Kai's voice is like sunbaked steel. "Whoever this monster is, it's better if we don't let him get you."

"The Zoo has rooms available," Dee says. "Privacy and security, too. She could stay there a few days. Until things—" Internally, externally, "—settle down here."

_The Zoo?_

Reminder hits her. Joel mentioned that the Zoo had been converted to a hotel. He'd planned to demolish Diva's tower, as a symbolic  _coup de grace_ , but held off at her request. Why had he done that? It would've been smarter to get rid of it. Why wait for her say-so?

Was it out of duty? Or did the irony of a larger structure destroyed by a swarm of invaders suit his secretly-socialist sympathies?

It's too late to ask.

Her eyes brim with tears. Outside, the pelting rain is like a lamentation.

Staring out the window, Saya thinks,  _What are we going to do?_

Haji reaches to touch her shoulder. She jerks away. The aftermath of the battle—the entire brutal day—throbs through her. The faintest touch makes her ache.

Unthinkingly, she slips a hand into her pocket. Nestled inside, astonishingly intact, is Nathan's tincture. Its presence doesn't disquiet her.

It is a _What-If?_ poured into a vial. Hot and strong with promise.

* * *

 

1 Chome-3

Minatomachi, Naha-shi

Okinawa-ken 900-0001

Jordan Tibbets can't believe his fucking ears.

"He attacked her? _In_   _broad daylight_?!"

Carsten has the grace to look sheepish. In the periphery, Tórir is hunched over a utility sink, splashing water on his face. His face is crusted with blood, and his hair is darkened with it. His shirt is bloodsmeared too, lying in a heap on the grubby tiles.

As Jordan watches, Tórir pushes off his jeans, kicking them away, the gesture bored but also somehow petulant. Like a kid whose outing was interrupted by killjoy adults.

His mismatched eyes flick to Jordan's. Wincing, Jordan looks away. Behind him, his security detail—three armed guards—stand at the ready.

He'd gotten the call from Carsten two hours ago. An emergency, the address of a rendezvous point at an abandoned rest stop near Shinko Pier Central Park, a request for extra clothes and a cooler of blood-packs. On the heels of the call came a panicky announcement from the lab, stating that Red Shield had descended  _en masse_  to conduct a sweep of the island and its neighboring inlets. Scouts, scanners, soldiers—the works.

It didn't take Jordan long to put two and two and two together and come up with six. Or, better stated, add Tórir and Red Shield and the terrified phonecall from Carsten and come up with:

 _Trouble_.

Trouble with Tórir's red-stained fingerprints all over it.

Now they're at the empty rest stop, clustered together in the men's room. The entire building has a disused air, its walls the chipped gray of a mausoleum, the floor strewn with trash. Middle of nowhere. The kind of place where corpses are found.

Jordan should be thankful for the armed guards. He's not.

Carsten has already proven to be unhinged. A loon, a liability. But  _Tórir_  is the real problem. The guy gives off a miasma of the creepiest kind. Try as Jordan might to convince himself that he's lucked out, that they've hit the jackpot with a bona fide Chevalier, the asset of all assets…

He's not.

Instead he feels massively unprepared. Utterly in over his goddamn fool head.

Except it's too late to pull back. He's like a man trying to hold his ground against a tsunami. It is hopeless. The most he can do is brace himself for impact, and pray he'll come out in one piece.

"He—he wanted a sample of her blood," Carsten says ineptly. "He got carried away."

" _Carried away_?" Jordan grits his teeth. "He's got Red Shield breathing like bloodhounds down our necks! It's a good thing the laboratory at Yabuchi's been razed! But if they get access to any files on the servers—"

"I  _know_ , Jordan. Look. It's not so bad. The board gave us green light, right? They planned to relocate us overseas. Get us started with the new project?"

"All that could collapse with one fart! Especially if they catch a whiff of the loose cannon we're lugging around!"

"No one needs to know—"

"Unless he pulls another crazy stunt!" Jordan rakes both hands through his hair. Christ Almighty, the top of his head's gonna be lonely as an eggshell at this rate. "I mean—Jesus, Carsten! What were you  _thinking_?! You swore to keep an eye on him!"

"He wanted to explore the city! What was I supposed to do? Put him on a  _leash_?"

"Why the hell was he near the Queen's villa in the first place? That's the last place he ought to be—"

"I disagree," Tórir interjects calmly. "It is the  _only_  place."

Carsten clamps his mouth shut, and Jordan's shoulders tense, though he does a good job of remaining otherwise in-control. Behind him, the guards hold their positions, weapons at the ready.

"For  _you_ , maybe," Jordan snaps. "But it's cost us precious time spent negotiating with our clients."

"If this 'client' is willing to waste days of negotiation with you, despite your prior failures, then they are already sold," Tórir says. "The rest is elaborate theater."

"And you're sure of this because—?"

"Because you have me. For now."

Tórir rotates his head, the joints in his neck cracking.

The sound sends a spikewave of cold down Jordan's spine. He swallows. "Look. I don't know how long you spent in that cave, gnawing on snakes and bats. But that's not how we do things here. There's a process that's necessary for people like us to secure financiers. One misstep and—"

"Your logic is flawed," Tórir murmurs. "As expected."

"Wha—?"

It happens in the space of moments.

Without warning, Tórir moves. His right arm flashes out, the fingers edged like scythes. He swings them, not at Jordan, but at the trio of armed guards. The men, muscles realigning on reflex, raise their weapons.

But it is too late.

Their identical, faintly alarmed expressions don't waver, even when Tórir's clawed arm slices through their throats, a diagonal slash.

Jordan's senses are filled with blood, its scent and taste. One guard slumps facedown, gurgling frothy blood from his torn throat. The second jolts airborne, his jugular ripped open, then drops to his knees with a look of stunned disbelief on his face. Then his head smacks down messily against the tiles, right before the third guard, neck exploding in red, crumples on top of him.

The attack occurs almost noiselessly.

Jordan's mouth drops open. His heart stalls, and keeping upright is an effortful exercise. Not pissing his pants is another.

He's dealt with gore before. But always in the sterile environments of laboratories. Animals cut open for dissection. Human test subjects who signed waivers. He's never confronted violence—the spontaneity and messiness of it—in his entire half-century life.

Now he stares, terror-stricken, at the creature who just popped his cherry.

"Tórir!" Carsten screeches. "Tórir —wh-what the  _fuck_ —?"

Tórir ignores him. He is perfectly expressionless, not a hair out of place save a reddish lock curling over his mismatched eyes. Lowering his blood-slicked arm, he flashes fangs in the disconcerting semblance of a smile.

Jordan breathes in hiccupping gulps, near hysteria. And Tórir knows it. In that moment, staring into the other man's eyes, Jordan understands that death holds no dignity.

Just the implacable dictates of a monster's moods.

"I am growing tired," Tórir says. "Of twiddling my thumbs on this island. And having my movements  _dictated_  by fools."

Jordan breathes, in and out, his larynx a knot refusing to loosen.

"Even without all the other faults to disqualify you, your inability to grasp your place is enough," Tórir continues. "I am not a show-horse for you to trot out to each new buyer. I could leave at any time it suits me to make alliances elsewhere."

"Tórir—" Carsten stumbles closer, nearly slipping on the smeary tiles. "Tórir, take it easy—take it—"

Tórir's hand lifts, and is held steady.  _Silence._

His eyes remain on Jordan's, eerie in their unblinking brightness. "Your silly experiment is not my purview. I am interested only in securing the little Red Queen. Your purpose is to make it easier for me."

"In exchange for her nieces, I-I  _know_!" Jordan's voice cracks. But he is too far gone to be ashamed. Everything else is fracturing by the nearness of the threat this monster embodies. "Look, I swear it'll happen! But you need to be patient! You can't just—"

Tórir hits him, a tremendously powerful backhand to the face.

Jordan's head caroms off the wall. Flakes of plaster go flying. Reeling like a drunk, Jordan slides down to the soiled floor, the friction rucking up his shirt along his spine. Red and white flecks dance in front of his eyes.

" _Shit_!" Carsten lurches forward. "Jordy!"

Clumsily, he reaches to help his colleague. Jordan winces; his lips are swelling up like sausages, and he's pretty sure he's cracked a tooth. That in itself would be bad enough. What's worse is the frantic bulge to Carsten's eyes. Like a child whose Saturday Morning Superhero has metamorphosed into the nightmare under his bed.

Tórir ignores them completely. He has already turned away, treading with complete indifference across the fallen guards, a circle of congealing blood beneath them. His bare feet squelch across the puddle, tracking red smudges on the tiles.

"Make arrangements," he says. "It is time I see what else this world has to offer."

* * *

 

Narita airport is crowded.

Ambient noises hang in the air. Clumps of people drift under the fluorescent glare. Tourists trundling luggage. Families carting children. Through the PA speakers, voices echo and re-echo in Japanese and English. The sensory glut is a full-body migraine.

Haji, after decades of travel, has learnt to tune it out.

Their flight is later tonight—an eighteen-hour sprint from Okinawa to Paris, with a brief stopover in Hong Kong. Fortunately, they aren't flying commercial. A private Red Shield jet is being discreetly fueled at the hangar; they've been let through by airport security with a politely perfunctory check for passports and baggage.

Hefting his cello case, Haji thinks,  _Thank God for small favors_.

He's already in the red-zone of alertness. But stifled, also, by the heavy silence. Saya hadn't spoken a word to him during their trip to the villa. In the blur of preparations, she'd kept apart, putting in a word only when necessary, but otherwise staying on the sidelines, her body enrobed as if in a shell.

It was how she'd been after the Bordeaux Sunday. How she'd been, after losing her father at Yanbaru, and after Riku's murder. Saya didn't  _deal with_  grief. She swallowed it up, undigested, letting it manifest in troubling physical symptoms: fits of temper, spells of silence, bouts of starvation, all with regrettable consequences.

It bothers Haji. Life's dangers bite at him like vipers. But they can be warded off.

It is different with Saya. Over two centuries as her Chevalier, and he can decode her moods, but never defuse them. Then again, he suspects half the trouble is that Saya can't figure herself out, either, and has to look for glitches under her surface like anyone else.

Right now, she seems… not calm, but on autopilot.

Sayumi and Sayuri have lured her to a Starbucks. Haji watches them select armfuls of treats—chocolates, muffins, tarts—before beelining for the counter to top off their purchases with overpriced cups of coffee. Saya, hugging the goodies to her chest, eyes the display menu. As Haji has predicted, she chooses the joltiest brew on display, betraying her need for a pick-me-up.

Once the girls join V and Sachi at their table, she eats without hunger or relish. Just to sustain her body for the hours ahead.

In the pin-dot lights, her necklace flashes like a signal.

The sight of it unnerves Haji. Saya has never been superstitious. In the early days, her habit of carrying Diva's crystallized remains struck him as strange. But he'd written it off as a private ritual of grief, and resolved not to interfere.

Now it is almost a morbid séance.

"Don't know how they can drink that crud. And at ¥2000 a pop."

Kai yawns and scrubs a hand through his hair. He has the fuzzy air of a man who has barely slept. But the mellowness of his mood suggests it was insomnia well-spent.

He and Dee had stayed over at the villa, as part of Saya's security detail. At night, Dee had taken the guest-bedroom, and Kai the livingroom couch. However, Haji knows the latter was soon abandoned, while the former endured a double-occupancy that was nowhere near as innocent as the crisis warranted.

It is exasperating, but expected. Haji has spent a long time among humans. Long enough to know that in the wake of death, life asserts itself in the most basic of drives.

Ironically, knee-deep in death during the war, he and Saya never succumbed to the lure of sex. They weren't wired that way. Desire was to be circumnavigated; self-indulgence to be mastered. Their personal needs were irrelevant to the completion of the Mission.

As lovers, it hasn't changed.

( _Has anything?_ )

"When will the Silversteins arrive?" Haji asks.

"Soon as they get last minute details settled. Adam needs a leave of absence from school. The news messed up their entire schedule."

"Hm."

Like everything else, life must yield to the crisis of leadership in Red Shield, and the strategies necessary to evaluate the new threat.

_And protect Saya._

Anger like an ice-burn works its way through Haji's system. He thinks of Saya in the clutches of that Chevalier. Thinks of her bruises, and the cornered-prey gleam in her eyes. Of all the times she has been hurt, this feels by far the most infuriating. Why? Because of the shameful repeat of his failure at Sakurazaka Street?

Or his failure in general? As a Chevalier, a friend, a man.

He seethes—at himself, and at the unworthiness of the anger. Saya would be the first to tell him that he doesn't need to protect her. She is strong, and can watch herself.

And she  _is_  strong. The best and bravest person he knows.

But also so  _fragile_.

He doesn't just mean the clinical diagnosis of PTSD. That itself holds the anxious spotlight of his focus. But it is overshadowed by a different fragility. Since her Awakening, she radiates an unsettled aura. A supernatural residue that he cannot put his finger on. She is still Saya, the transient surface of Saya. Beneath that is something he barely recognizes.  _It's dark in there._  And the darkness is different from the complex coding of trauma, its pathology and spontaneity.

It unmans the most primal piece of Haji, goes straight to his gut and makes him ready to fight and die on her behalf. Whatever it takes to erase that strangeness in her. 

 _(How do you kill a threat without a face_?)

He traces his eyes over Saya's three-quarter profile, downcast over her coffee. Remembers the fight they'd had before she'd stormed off. The implausible story of Chiropterans, and Queens and Chevaliers, and…

_Babies._

Tempting to say she's gone mad. That she is signing herself up for disaster, gulled by a trickster's lies.

Nathan is a mystifying fixture in Haji's life. But he isn't an ally, much less a friend. Haji can rely on him for business, but never trust him—a distinction he can make with ease because he's learnt from boyhood to be pragmatic, to depend on the expedient rather than the ideal. He's from a world where self-compromise was not degradation but a defense, and where the balance of power depended entirely on your willingness to shake the Devil's hands without flinching.

His childhood—sold as a toy for a twisted dollhouse—was built on shaky bargains.

_(What shakier bargain is there but parenthood?)_

Something in Haji's gut clenches. There is no way to broach the subject with Saya. Not now.

_(If not now, then when?)_

Her wish is hardly a non-sequitur. He understands that she longs to steady their unbalanced dynamic. Her grief at the finiteness of their time stirs a familiar empathy through him. But motherhood is too risky a venture—especially during such a crisis. His calculus where Saya is concerned is cut-and-dried. Anything that puts her off her game is a threat. Pregnancy—children—could be  _fatal_.

The lure of borrowed time holds no appeal to Haji. Thirty years with Saya versus her safety? If asked, he'd make the choice in a heartbeat.

Simple. Straightforward. Settled.

Except that doesn't explain the childish tug of hope in his chest: a plucked eyelash, a shooting star, a birthday candle.

A whisper of:  _What If_?

At his shoulder, Kai frowns, "How's Saya holding up?"

"Julia examined her yesterday. Her wounds have healed."

" _That's_ obvious. I meant otherwise."

When Haji doesn't immediately answer, Kai sighs. "I'm guessing that's a 'Not good.'"

"I cannot speak for her."

"I saw." Kai's eyes hold a dry sympathy. "She blows her top if you try."

Haji answers with little expression. "I apologize."

"What for?"

"That you had to see that."

"What? A five-second shouting match?" Kai scoffs. "Like you weren't around to mediate enough firefights between me and Mao."

"That was different."

"Yeah. Saya's just got a crazy streak. Mao didn't have a  _sane_  streak. One whole expressway to batshitville, that girl."

"She loved you."

Kai cracks a short, bitter laugh. "Loved me enough to screw around with Akihiro behind my back."

"It was more complicated than that."

"Oh yeah?"

Haji hesitates. Gallantry, and a lingering soft-spot for Kai's ex-fiancée, still strike him at odd moments. By themselves, Kai and Mao were good people. But together, they were a short-fused powderkeg of disaster.

Quietly, he says, "She wanted …a family of her own."

Kai scowls. "So instead of talking to me like a sane adult, she let Akihiro knock her up?" When Haji obdurately says nothing, he sighs, "I never did wanna talk. Not about... settling down. It felt like a jinx. Things were good as they were. Shit—they were better by a hundred percent than I ever thought  _my_  life would be. I had Yumi and Yuri. I had my work with Red Shield. I had Omoro. I didn't wanna mess up the equation by bringing tykes into it."

"You were afraid."

"I was. Of change. The big C." Kai's wry not-smile is layered in wistfulness. "I wasn't brave enough. Not the way Mao needed. And probably deserved." He sighs. "It worked out in the end. She's happier with Ahikhiro."

"Have you spoken to her? About Joel's passing?"

"We had a talk. She might fly up to pay her respects. Or opt for a condolence call. Yakuza bosses are a busy bunch." Hands in his pockets, Kai rocks back on his heels, a gesture of blithe detachment at odds with his solemn gaze. "She sounded... floored. Like she couldn't believe Joel was gone." Quieter, "I guess I am too."

Haji nods. "His leadership was invaluable."

"He was more than that. The backbone of Red Shield. I mean, the guy couldn't even  _walk_. But he kept fighting. Not for himself, but for the Mission. He put everything on the line for it... the family fortune, his time, his life, and... his  _life_. The personal life." His voice drops. "David says his wife isn't a grieving widow so much as a fuming one. She blames Red Shield for eating him alive."

"We have all made sacrifices for the war."

"I hear you." His eyes follow Haji's, to where Saya sits with the twins. "Some more than others."

"It would be wrong to keep score."

"I know. Everyone played their part. It's why we survived." He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Except now the countdown's started."

"Countdown?"

Kai's words are a death-bell distantly tolling. "Before we join Joel. One by one."

Resignation sinks through Haji. Kai is right.

Folly to grow attached to humans. A handful of decades out of a Chiropteran's eternity? Barely a dust-mote in an hourglass. Yet the people Haji fought alongside in the war—Kai, David, Lewis, Julia, Joel—they are special. He respects them, for themselves, and because they are dear to his dearest one, his Queen. He knows that when they are gone, he will carry his mourning of them, as he's carried Riku's, as both a mass and a miracle in his chest.

They are all soldiers in a warzone. Bound by a blood-pact, like his promise to Saya. Live or die, they are in it together.

_(What about away from the warzone?)_

That is different. Terra incognita in terrifying contours. Caught in a vacuum of aimlessness, he and Saya could succumb to the treacheries common to most relationships. Lying to each other, manipulating each other, flaws magnifying and forgiveness fading into a scorecard of pettiness.

Love is never equal. There is always someone doing the holding, and someone being held. An equation that is fitting between a Queen and Chevalier.

But partners? They have no idea how to be that for each other.

_(So why risk it further with children?)_

Haji recognizes he is caught in a rut of rationalizing, and makes himself stop. His cardinal fear—now and always—is losing Saya. To external threats, but also to the narrow edge of despair that still separates him from her. Yet he cannot bridge it, try as he might. Not alone. Only her family can, and they will not remain forever. He and Saya will survive long after their contemporaries are gone.

_(Is that why she wants children? Is an eternity at your side not worth living?)_

"Great," says Kai. "They're here."

Haji blinks.

The Silversteins are trooping down the concourse, luggage in tow. All of them in utilitarian traveling clothes, their blond hair made brighter by the fluorescent lights, peachy faces tanned by the Okinawan summer. Ezra is talking to Julia about their five-hour stopover in Hong Kong, and the chance of meeting a colleague who can analyze the blood-sample of Saya's attacker. Adam, scrubbing a hand across his face, asks David if he can get a Red Bull from the vending machine. And Dee, on the phone with Red Shield's security detail, is saying, in a crisp voice and distinctly, "Two limos will be plenty."

When Kai catches her eyes, she twinkles. Amazing that her hawk-eyed father and ever-observant mother haven't yet parsed the chemical signals between their daughter and her mentor.

Human beings continue to baffle Haji.

He tunes in, cataloging their surroundings, but also taking a snapshot of the group as a whole, their ordinariness and extraordinariness. Alive and vital now. Yet, like Riku, like Joel, they will eventually be dust.

The knowledge slinks darkly into his thoughts, with  _Saya_  and  _Babies_  at the periphery. He isn't sure where those thoughts are going, in a direction or in circles, except that they carry with them questions.

Too many questions.

In the next beat, he shakes it off. They have a lugubrious journey ahead. Days of change, challenge, and potential catastrophe.

For Saya, he will face everything head-on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop: Paris :)
> 
> I should warn in advance: the upcoming Travel Arc is gonna be pretty grimdark and disjointed compared to the Okinawa one. Everything will build to a head (catastrophically) toward the end of Act II. Nonetheless, I hope it's enjoyable!
> 
> Feedback is yum, so don't forget to share!


	27. Timepiece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday update :)
> 
> Picking up where we left off with Saya and the crew. Meanwhile, Tórir is on the move, inching closer toward his ultimate goal. Expect much angst and funeralizing. I've mentioned before, but the chapters in the France et al. arc are pretty heavy on the angst. Just a heads up to let y'all know. This will continue until Saya and Mr. Ginger T's storylines collide, in a pretty explosive way, in the final chapters of Act II.
> 
> Now on with the fic! Review, pretty please!

Metal cranes.

The airport runway is crowded with metal cranes. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Tórir watches their fantastic shapes. Bright flashes of red and white lights. Sweeping wings and angular bodies, with tails like the fins of sharks. Except they are larger than sharks. Larger even than whales, their bodies cutting at deafening velocity across the halogen-lit runway, breaking past the barrier of gravity before arrowing into the night sky.

Four o'clock a.m. Matchstick rays of pre-dawn light arc over the horizon. Day unfolding here, night descending elsewhere. A whole world of possibilities, each destination ticking by like on a board at the ticket counter. Tokyo. Beijing. Seoul. Jakarta. Istanbul. Paris. London. Edinburgh.

And Tórshavn. Capital of the Faroe Islands.

 _Home_.

"You need anything Tórir?"

Tórir exhales with irritation. This is the fifteenth time that human—Carsten—has asked him that. Slumped like a dollop of pudding on the barstool at the executive lounge, his eyes keep skittering to Tórir's face. Like he doesn't know whether to drop to his knees in lust or in terror-struck adulation.

It has been that way since Tórir's attack on Jordan's guards. A reaction Tórir was accustomed to in another life, from men and women alike. It served him well during his days as a  _blodprinsen_. It will serve him just as well here.

Yet he's forgotten how... tiresome the attention can be.

"I am fine," he says, elegantly clipped.

"Sure you don't want another drink?" Of blood, he means. "It's a long trip from Okinawa to the States."

"I will manage."

A pretty stewardess at the end of the lounge, ripe of form and fruity of scent, keeps giving Tórir the eye over the rim of her martini. Her attractive red uniform is from Cathay Pacific. The airline that Tórir and Carsten will be boarding. Tórir has no doubt, if the journey grinds on interminably, that a sweet assignation can be arranged—with blood taken from her jugular in the form of a love-bite.

There is no need for carnage during the journey.

_Plenty of time for that afterward._

Afterward, when he has Saya in his sightlines. Their last battle—an impulse of fascination on his part—ended in stalemate. Or, if he is honest, a close shave.

But it gave him what he wanted.

A few dropfuls of her blood, rich as rubies. Not too much. While not as potent as the Blue Queen's blood, her daughters carry strains of the same toxicity that can crystallize a Red Queen's 'Chevalier.' In Tórir's case, it can debilitate him, but not kill him—so long as he doesn't overindulge.

He did not take Saya's blood as indulgence. He took it for knowledge.

Because inside her blood was a knothole of memories. He'd stared at that knothole, a dark blot spiderwebbing into the heart of her, until he fell into it.

Inside was pure chaos. A psyche dragged across space and time, forced to confront barbarity and bloodshed, death and deceit. The world he'd seen, her world, was entrancing. Chilling. Massacres in Vietnam. Manhunts in Russia. Journeys on trains and ships and planes. Foes decimated, friendships lost, family slaughtered. And at the forefront, burning bright as a star,  _Diva_.

Diva, the Blue Queen to Saya's Red.

The sister she had killed with her own hands.

Tórir cannot fathom such a feat. Yet the more he turns it over, like a gem between his fingers, each memory a facet caught in the light, the more convinced he becomes of the rightness of his return to this world.

He is here to lure away the little Red Queen from her path down a life of human delusion. To restore her to where she belongs.

On his leash, as the perfect weapon.

And once he has unlocked that hellfire in her, stoked it and unleashed it to his purpose...

Ah, what glory will befall his reign! The deadliest of natural disasters at his beck and call, slaughtering and savaging, while humans heap tributes at his feet for a chance to harness her power. Because here, as anywhere, power is the only language that the living speak, and the only lesson the dead have failed to heed.

Of course, the transfer of power never did run smooth. (Is his mind paraphrasing Shakespeare? Someone he supped from must have unplumbed depths. Saya herself, perhaps?) Patience and planning are required to get where he needs to.

Tórir is undaunted. Patience and planning are two skills he's honed in abundance, though never at the detriment of his adventurous streak.

Like all else, it will serve him well in the months ahead.

"Say, Tórir?"

He comes back to the moment with a blink. "What?"

Carsten pops a handful of sugared pecans into his mouth. "I'm curious. About your powers."

"What about them?"

"Can you… well. Can you really gain knowledge by drinking someone's blood?"

"It is not so simple." Tórir takes a sip of his water. No alcohol for him—then as now. He prefers nothing to soften under his pleasant demeanor the sharp hatreds with which he's so adept at stabbing others. "It is more like a fingerprint. A marker of everything that comprises the other person. Memory, personality, preference."

"And only Chiropter—I mean, only Blodfødt have the gift?"

"Yes. It is strongest among Queens. But their Chevaliers—the  _blodprinsen_ —inherit the gift."

"But what's the point of the ability? From a biosocial standpoint, I mean?" Carsten crams another handful of pecans into his mouth. How can he eat that sugary rubbish? His exhalations already carry a fermented tinge that Tórir associates with people developing diabetes. "See, from what you told me, Blodfødt are smart creatures, right? They valued privacy as much as anyone. So why risk exposure with a sip of blood?"

"A strategy of adaptation. Learning a language. Acquiring a skill. Becoming assimilated to a new world." He indicates to himself, a non-verbal  _Exhibit A_. "The Blodfødt are shapeshifters. Their defining strategy is to blend in. For Queens, it proves useful after each hibernation. A drink from her  _blodprinsen_ would provide the requisites to adjust to a new environment. And by taking knowledge from a human's blood, she would know their languages and beliefs—and insinuate herself accordingly."

"Huh. Sneaky little bitches."

"They are." He offers the beginnings of a thin smile. "Sneaky—and selfish. They care only for themselves, and their realm. And they go to catastrophic lengths to protect it."

"Catastrophic?"

"I once knew a Queen. She butchered an entire village to keep pestilence out of her demesne. Another who strung servants upside-down, dripping their blood into a trough as punishment for treason. Queens were skilled in the arts of warfare—but also more secret subterfuges like poisons. They studied herbs as gateways to religious trances, sexual ecstasy, fighting prowess—and death. Many kept sages, mages and midwives at their disposal, to unlock the lore of nature, and use it to subjugate mankind."

"Whoa. That's. I dunno. Feminazi on Steroids or something."

Tórir does not recognize the reference. No matter. He can google it.

"So... blood-sharing between the Blodfødt," Carsten continues. "Was it a strategy for bonding? Telepathy as an extension of empathy, almost?"

"Somewhat. Between Queens and  _blodprinsen_ , it was a pledge of fealty. Strengthening over time. Two hundred years or more would develop the first stirrings of the gift. But most would not master it until at least three centuries or so."

"But you have."

The barest smile. "I have lived longer than three centuries."

Carsten seems on the verge of asking,  _So how old are you?_  But the glint in Tórir's eyes makes him think better of it. He resumes chomping on the pecans.

Tórir watches him with veiled distaste. Carsten is clever and useful, but he has the self-control of a pig. It amuses Tórir to consider the man that way: that porcine coat of meat pared down and hung on a hook. Salted. Pickled. Boiled.

He isn't unique among his kind, of course. Most of the humans Tórir sees are the bloblike summation of their time. Short concentration spans. Sugary diets. A naivety born of sedentary ways. They learn their lessons not in sea-voyages or battlefields but from tiny screens. Living, as it were, in a vacuum—until a catastrophe wrenches them out of it.

Tórir will revel in being that  _catastrophe_.

"Carsten." It is a bored prompt. "Tell me something."

Carsten jolts to attention. "Yeah?"

"The 'access agent' our financiers spoke of. He was a prisoner?"

"Once. Initially he was held at the ICC's detention center in the Hague. After they gave him a thirty-year sentence, he was sent to France to serve it out."  Carsten swallows a gulpful of beer. It gives his breath an unsavory, piss-like whiff. "He's spent time in La Santé. Fifteen years—not the full thirty. Turns out he had friends in high places. A few of them pulled strings to get him good legal representation."

"Hm."

"After his release, he started a Biopharma company in Las Vegas. Silver Corp, they're called. They have a respectable board-of-directors. A photogenic female CEO. FDA approval. Everything's legit. But our contact is the real string-puller. He works as a shadow partner. Doing business with global clients, as a way to circumvent regulatory bodies. IBM-UAWA have tapped into his services in the past—mostly for clinical trials."

"And he was a student of your mentor?"

"A long time ago. But they still keep in touch. We could use him. He's got the smarts—and experience—we need to finalize our project."

"Hmm." Tórir mulls this over a languid sip of water. Then: "Our lookouts. They said we have clearance for a few weeks, yes? While Red Shield is in disrepair."

"Yeah. Their leader, Joel Goldschmidt, just died of heart trouble. With him out of commission, the organization will be too distracted to keep all eyes open. At least 'till they get a replacement."

"And Saya and her family. They will stay overseas."

"Yeah. A few days, at least. Maybe longer. Our agents will let us know."

"Hm."

Tórir tucks away this piece of information with mild interest. Travel leaves the prey vulnerable.

And movement, the precursor of opportunity, is all he needs.

* * *

 

"Saya?"

The cool flirt of fingertips.

"Sayaaaa? Wakey, wakey."

"Mmm."

Her eyes flutter open. Pale light is all around, suffusing her with a skin-tingling warmth. She feels in a place outside of time—yet right where she belongs.

Her bedroom, at the villa. Blue daylight pours in through the stained-glass windows. Blue roses are clustered around the wooden frame.

_Home._

_I'm home?_

Home, but not alone. She is tucked up in bed with someone, snug as two babies in a cradle.

In the glow, Diva's face hovers close, smiling down at her, her long hair dangling to brush her skin.

"Wake  _up_ , lazy bones," she says. "It's almost noon."

 _Dream_ , Saya thinks.  _I'm dreaming._

Except it never helps to know that she is. Sitting up and yawning, her face caught in a perfect reflection of Diva's, their bodies effortlessly mirroring each other, the  _rightness_  of the moment settles in. Reality never feels as perfect as dreams. It never hurts so piercingly.

" _Finally_!" Diva bounces in bed, vibrating with excess energy. "You  _promised_  to wake up early! We were gonna go shopping with Sayumi and Sayuri!"

"Shopping…?"

"For the baby shower!" The trademark little-sister eyeroll. "Don't tell me you  _forgot_!?"

"What?" A baby shower? For whom? "I-I didn't think it was today."

" _Duh_! When else?" Diva gives her the stink-eye. "You didn't oversleep because of  _Haji_ , did you?"

"Um…"

Saya's face heats to a ferocious pink. Diva lets off an  _Ah-ha!_  and dissolves into laughter.

Saya blinks. The uncanniness of the scene keeps reshaping, moment by moment. She's heard that spilled-champagne laughter before. The sound has always made badness flare inside her. Memories of blood and fire and filth.

This is different. Diva is the same, her flighty personality intact. But everything else is changed. Her white dress isn't an Ophelia-esque shroud but a stylish little frock, Issey Miyake maybe. She also has dangly teardrop earrings and a tiny diamond wristwatch, and her complexion, still a few shades paler than Saya's, is nonetheless toasty. Tropical-tan.

Stranger still is the sweetness shining off her. Both of them sitting up in bed, knees touching and their heads close enough that their long hair tangles like spiderwebs, a frozen moment whose surrealism should be paralyzing.

It isn't.

It is no stranger than the affection welling inside Saya. Or the eight-month baby bump stretching her pajama top. Its warm weight, like Diva's presence, is an anchor.

Saya touches her sister's hand, and smiles. "I'm sorry I overslept. Really. The shopping slipped my mind."

Diva shakes her head. "I forgive you. You're just making up for lost time with Haji, right? When is he flying out on tour? Next week?"

"Mm." Sadness is a brief downtug at Saya's mouth. She shakes it off. "I'll be fine. Plenty to keep me busy. Between decorating the nursery and college classes and helping Kai at Omoro…"

" _And_  you promised to cheer me on at my next concert," Diva reminds her.

"I did." Then, mock-scolding: "But  _this_  time, I refuse to sit in the back row. Your fans nearly mobbed me!"

Diva pouts. "It's not  _my_  fault we look alike!"

"It  _is_  your fault for putting me in the nosebleed section."

"That was Nathan's idea! He said the acoustics were better!"

"My ears are  _fine!_ "

"You coulda fooled me," Diva grumbles. "I've been trying to wake you for the past  _hour_." A sly little moue. "I'm not sure if I should kick Haji—or ask for pointers."

Saya laughs. "I'll be sure to tell  _Solomon_  that."

" _Do_ ," Diva huffs. "And while you're at it, tell him he's a woogie, wriggly worm. Promising to be there for my birthday, then slinking off to Monte Carlo to gamble the night away with flunkies and floozies a-a-and carry out other F-related acts of wrongness!"

"Oh, Diva. It's not his fault the flight was delayed."

"Well:  _hello_! He's got wings of his own. He could've flown here!"

"Monaco to Okinawa? For seventeen hours straight?' Saya quirks a brow. "Your birthday would be over by the time he arrived. If he didn't drop from heat-exhaustion somewhere in China."

"It's the  _principle_  of the thing!" Diva's petulance conceals the hurt beneath. "He never drops everything at a moment's notice and swoops in to see me. Not like Haji does with you!"

"Oh Diva…" Saya softens with sympathy. "That's not true. He cares about you very much."

"I care about him too! What I  _don't_ do is make a lifestyle out of hiding behind fabricated business meetings or furniture!"

Saya lets off a sigh. "Commitment can be scary. Some men rise to the occasion. Others need time to process it—"

"Under a  _table_?!"

"Better than a guillotine."

"Don't tempt me," Diva mutters. "If he skips out on our engagement party—"

"If he does, he'll face in-law hell of the highest order," Saya says.

She's very fond of Solomon. But his stormy relationship with Diva, defined by passionate patching-ups and fickle fallouts, needs to be addressed. She and Haji don't mind keeping Diva at the villa during their temporary separations, plying her with tissue papers and hugs and retail-therapy. But her twin deserves better—especially after the fiasco with Amshel, that suitor-turned-Svengali.

 _Bastard_ , Saya thinks, and the clarity of rage merges her two selves, reality and dream, into one.

Gently, she strokes the loose fall of Diva's hair. "Let's not worry about Chevaliers right now. Have you had breakfast?"

"No." Diva doles out a  _Pity Me_  pout. "I was waiting for you to get up."

Sticky with big-sister guilt, Saya shoos her out and showers on record speed. They rejoin in the sunlit kitchen, eggs frying and tea percolating, moving around each other with the same dancelike grace as when they'd fought at the Met a lifetime ago. Their communication flows and eddies—plans for the day, gossipy tidbits, international politics, the latest Marvel movie. The room's emotional acoustic is mellow with a sisterly cheer that at any other time would make Saya wonder if she's had an aneurism, or ingested a peyote, or otherwise fallen off the end of the universe and into an alternate dimension.

The Land of Soap Opera Saccharine, a parallel universe to the bitter black coffee of Real Life.

Yet, as she and Diva sit at the kitchen island, tea steaming above and feet dangling below, Saya smiles. The morning savors of the ordinary. Diva's company, like the hugeness of her belly, eases within her every lost molecule of longing, every spilled tear and empty silence, that she's never dared to put into words.

"…I was thinking, after the babies are born, we could head to Iriomote Island, with Sayumi and Sayuri," Diva says. "Just us girls. I took scuba diving lessons last year. We could explore the coral reef together. Pet all those colorful fishies. Solomon's promised to take me to the Great Barrier Reef for the honeymoon. I performed at the Sydney Opera House last year, but I never…"

Saya's smile widens. Everything about Diva, from the benign blueness of her eyes to the gloss of her mirth-rounded cheeks, is adorable and evokes love. And yet Saya finds herself searching her twin's face, as if scanning for some difference: a mole, a scar, an irregular line, that will make the scene transform, so the perfection of the morning is reduced to an illusion.

She doesn't trust the pure luster of her happiness. Not without it coexisting, hour by hour, with darker shades of loss.

"…Ray Lawler's  _Doll Trilogy_ …" Diva chirps, "…Witchetty grubs and Barramundi afterward… Better than it looks, if you're hungry…"

A wave of cold uncertainty seeps into Saya. The cheerful kitchen darkens. The shafts of sunlight break into misshapen splotches, like a jigsaw puzzle falling apart. Her head pounds, inky shapes and menacing sensations gathering force in her brain, so the very air of the room descends into a chill.

"…white chocolate truffles…" Diva is saying, "…red velvet cake… red stains… old blood… rotting bodies…"

The music of Diva's voice has gone deathly soft. The words pour from her like snakes, heavy and cold, the consonants curving with the sheen of scales. Then it is an actual snake, sliding out from the red loop of her mouth. It slithers down Diva's chin, its eyes unslitting, liquid blue.

"Vietnam... Russia... Paris... and the moon goes red... and the pain eats you alive..."

Saya stares at the snake, tranced by the infernal familiarity of it. Red mist is massing at the corners of her eyes. Inside her, the barrier of credulity starts to collapse.

She fights to preserve it—she doesn't want the dream to end. Doesn't want to be parted from this mirage of happiness, where her intimacy with Diva is everlasting.

But it's too late.

Diva's voice has dropped to alien wavelengths—a pitch of decibels the living could never speak. Her skin moves, the bones beneath flattening, her eyes shrinking. Saya watches her twin's features erode as if beneath a dusting of quicklime. Left behind is an unformed shape, its surface fracturing into cobweb cracks.

From the dark orifice of the mouth, the snake uncoils to its full length, rising eerily.

 _"Saya."_  It is a sizzle, blood on brimstone. " _Wake up, Saya."_

The colors of the room are inverting. Black and white transposing into red. The tiles are speckled with it, blood dripping from between Saya's thighs in wet splats. Her big belly deflates into an expanse of curdled blood, sloshing around her like a nacre around a rusting nail.

"No," Saya croaks, hot blood rising to lap at her chest, her throat, her chin. " _No_."

_"Wake up, Saya."_

"No. Please, no—"

The blood pours into her mouth, words gurgling into panic, and—

* * *

 

" _Saya_."

She lurches awake. Her hair is glued to her skin with sweat. Haji's fingertips are cool on her cheek, his face close to hers. The taste in her mouth isn't blood, but bile.

Sucking in a breath, Saya glances around. She is on the private jet. The lights are low, the passengers asleep. The windows show a pre-dawn sky. A circle of dark, a hazy pink streak of horizon, a circle of light.

"Saya." Haji kneels beside her, laying a cool hand on her forehead. "Are you all right?"

"I—"

The words stall as she speeds to outrace her thoughts. The dream has faded beyond recall. Not the eerie portent of her usual conversations with Diva. This was no more than reheated leftovers from her psyche. Yet the clamminess of blood remains.

She fumbles with her seatbelt. "I need the bathroom."

Wordlessly, Haji helps her to her feet. She glances at him, half-expecting to see a glaze of weariness in his eyes. Weariness with her madness, her moodiness, and the misadventures she drags along in her wake.

_Stop it._

Now isn't the time for her stupid emotions to run wild. Better to concentrate on Joel's funeral, and on the potential threat brewing.

Yet her heart skips and relaxes when Haji cups the knob of her elbow. In the rosy dawn spreading bittersweetly through the cabin, he regards her with a clear-eyed calm. The budding sunlight catches in his eyelashes, the scarred jut of cheekbone and brow. A face changed by time, yet familiar as the map of home.

_Mine, mine, mine._

He guides her towards the narrow toilet cubicle, opening the door without sound. She gives him another quick glance, then shuts herself in.

The bathroom is claustrophobically tiny. Sink, toilet, changing table, all lit by a wan light. Saya knows she is going to vomit even before the acidic stuff spews up her mouth to splatter the basin. Rinsing off, she splashes her face with water, and drinks some between her cupped palms. She thinks of Joel, and their last phone conversation.

_"Hopefully …we can take a turn through the Zoo's grounds together."_

It is too late now.

The tears come unstoppably. She waits until they subside, before dabbing her face dry. Her emotions are unmoored: sad one moment, frozen-up the next. Not all of it has to do with Joel's death. The strangeness has been coalescing inside her since the Awakening.

Madness—possession?—doesn't explain everything.                                       

When she reemerges from the toilet, Haji is leaning by the bulkhead, arms folded. "All right?"

She nods, not meeting his eyes.

"Are you hungry? There are sandwiches in the back."

"I'm fine."

For once, the emptiness in her belly isn't hunger, but restlessness. When Haji gestures to their seat, she shakes her head. She yearns for exercise. But short of cartwheeling down the aisle and putting a foot through the cockpit door, there is nothing she can do.

Instead, she regards the sleeping passengers.

In the expansive leather seats, they seem under a somnolent spell. David and Julia, looking like a married-couple from an old 50s movie, are stretched out in their lie-flat beds: David on his back, with his hands folded across his chest; Julia half-sitting up with a book in her lap, its spine cracked, her glasses and David's wristwatch on the small table between them. Dee, Ezra and Adam are huddled in the three-seater opposite to them, wheat-colored heads lolling at awkward angles, the low lighting reducing their faces to innocent snubness.

On the table beyond, Kai snoozes. A neck-cushion serves as a pillow for his cheek; his brow is nestled on one muscular forearm, the fingers loosely curled into a fist. From this angle, he looks seventeen again. The ace pitcher at high-school, with the brash mouth and mean right-hook, who'd followed his little sister halfway around the world to keep her safe.

Sayumi and Sayuri doze on either side of him. Sayumi, half-kitten, half-child, despite her sultry Delilah curls and chipped red nail polish, is curled into a ball under her blanket, little paws folded against her chin. Yuri, daintily demure even in sleep, has both hands in her lap, knees crossed at the ankles in a Duchess Slant.

Their Chevaliers are wide-awake, but motionless. Sachi, with his shoes doffed and plugs in his ears, sits cross-legged in the seat in the way that only a compact gymnast can achieve. He is industriously working on a book of crossword puzzles. Beside him, V headbangs to rock-and-roll on his headphones, drumming out a subdued fanfare on his kneecaps.

The scene, heavy with familial repose, restores Saya to normality.

_I'm with my family._

_I'm safe_.

Whatever the downpour of strangeness and tragedy, it is always a relief.

She rests against the wall opposite to Haji. "How long until we arrive?"

"A few minutes. Red Shield has a small entourage stationed to greet us at the airport."

"And the funeral?"

"It will be held tomorrow morning. Afterward, there will be a meeting with the seconds-in-command."

"To discuss succession." She plucks restlessly at the hem of her blouse. "I wonder who it will be. Franz—Joel's eldest—he's next in line, isn't he?"

"He has stated that he is uninterested."

She bites her lip. "So that leaves Joel's next choice. His cousin, August. Have you met him?"

"No. From what I hear, he is clever. But he has also been divorced from Red Shield for several years."

"Well, hopefully he remembers his duty as a Shield. Joel asked me to support him if—" She stops, a spasm of grief closing off the words.

"Saya."

Haji's fingers twine through hers. He draws her into the bridged clasp of their bodies.

This time, unlike at Omoro, she lets herself be held. Lets him smooth her hair back from her forehead, and drop a kiss there. A waft of his scent—soap, rosin, the musky cloak from hours of travel—suffuses her lungs. She draws in a slow breath of it. Wishing they were together on the cool raft of a bed, floating away from their troubles.

Wishing, too, that there were no troubles at all, and that she'd stayed with Haji in Okinawa, going on having herself a little honeymoon. A chance to focus on nothing except romps along the beach and waking to drifts of cello notes and the enticing aroma of coffee and the butterflied coolness of Haji's kisses.

Reality has already encroached on her illusion. Exposing its impossibility.

"I can hear you thinking," Haji whispers.

Saya manages a smile. His insights always glance too close to the surface; an accuracy as disconcerting as it is comforting. "A terrible habit for a woman. Isn't that what Joel used to say?"

"Our Joel or the last?"

"Ours." Her smile fades. "The last... was nothing like that."

"He was a good man."

"Maybe that's why he died young."

Haji's eyes are ineffably gentle. "If survival were a purity test, Saya, most of us would be gone."

"Including me?"

"I will not think of that." His forehead warms itself against hers. "I hope you do not, either."

"I try not to. Just—" Her chest constricts. "I think of the normal life Joel could've had. Not just him. Everyone. They're all wrapped up in the Mission because of my mistakes. If things were different—"

"Sssh."

Haji encompasses her closer. Goosebumps form on her nape where he strokes it. His fingers, for all their chill, are gentle with intimacy. It is like being by herself only better, the skies of her mind clearing and the world dropping away: a high-jump, a hope-spot.

A glass half-full.

"Why is it…" she whispers.

"Hm?"

"Why is this the only thing that calms me?"

"I am glad something does," he says simply.

The words pass through her on a gust of gratitude.  There it is again. The sense that he is rightfully hers, even in a life where nothing comes without a price.  Looking back on the war, she remembers her bedrock solitude, as if he'd never been by her side at all. But other times, especially after the Met bombing, she'd look at her circle of comrades, and realize it was just a barely-legal brother, a no-nonsense handler, a glamorous glass mannequin of a doctor, an ex-CIA op with an appetite for apple-pie, an orphaned little Schiff girl, and Haji would fill her thoughts completely, a dark outline of familiarity and a whisper before a firestorm:  _I love you._

In those moments, she understands that they were never apart in the war. They were  _Together_ like the sea and the sky are together, a natural seamlessness that nothing can separate.

In her ear, Diva says,  _But is it enough?_

Saya flinches.

"Still thinking," Haji whispers.

She forces a smile. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"I wish I could've come to you a little less …cracked."

Haji folds her closer, and her ear is kissed by the coolness of his lips. "Cracks can heal."

"What if they don't?"

"I would not begrudge them." He gestures to the scarred solemnity of his face. "You have never begrudged mine."

Tears blur Saya's eyes. It takes a handful of breaths to gather herself. "S-Subject change."

"All right."

"The scouts in Okinawa. Have they found any trace of that Chevalier?"

"Not yet. They will send us a report once we've landed."

She nods. For a moment, she sees again the glowing blue eyes and the shape of one huge fist, exploding pain through her sinews like an atom bomb.

_"We have not finished, but barely begun."_

Who  _was_  that monster? What did he want with her?

And why did she feel no alarm at the thought of him, but inevitability?

"Saya?"

"Hm?"

Haji's expression sits carefully-composed. But a disquiet deepens the hollows of his eyes. "I had hoped we could talk. Not just about the Chevalier. Before that. About what Nathan told you."

She blinks. In the haste of their departure, she'd nearly forgotten.

"Saya, you should let Julia examine that tincture. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Nathan is misleading you. There is no way—"

And just like that, the residual anger bubbles up.

"Is that what you think? Or what you hope  _I'll_  think?"

He flinches, but doesn't fold. "There is no rational reason for Nathan to—"

She jerks out of his arms. "What if it's true? It would be a wasted chance if we let it slip away."

"A wasted chance. Or a foolish mistake. Saya, in light of everything, it is unwise to—"

"If this is more arguments ending with how I don't  _know my own mind_ , and need to be  _handled with care_ , I don't want to hear it."

"Please do not put words in my mouth." He lets off a muted sigh. "It is true you have not been yourself of late. But whatever is… unsettled… inside you, children will not remedy it."

"So you're psychic now?" Anger make a tremble of her voice. She isn't sure whether  _this_  metaphoric glass is half-full or half-empty. But she knows that with Haji's every refusal, it is cracking. She feels the agony of each crack, a fistful of shards welling blood, and conceals it beneath the ire that comes from long practice. "Or are you just too cowardly to take the risk?"

"It is the risk to  _you_  that concerns me." The earnest pleading of his stare half-blinds her. "Saya, I am not dismissing the idea in its entirety. I am simply asking you to postpone it. Until a better time."

"Is there  _ever_  a better time?!"

"Saya—"

" _Please_. If this means anything to you at all, you would understand  _we'd_  be better for it.  _I_  would."

She hopes the plea will bribe him into acceptance. Except she knows him, and she knows his stubbornness isn't without cause. He is a pragmatist, a survivor, a self-protective sentinel who never takes unnecessary risks.

Their history is already rife with risk. Even with the boon of thirty years, children can't negate over a century of warfare. It can't erase the double-spiral of trauma and self-sacrifice they've trapped each other inside. They need time, patience, peace. They need stability after the nightly whipsawings between vitriol and violence. They need to learn how to live together. How to  _love_ , not as fighters but as equals.

She understands all this.

And yet nine-tenths of her just … _wants_.

Silence stretches between them, submerged with the conflicts in their bodies, and the harsh dialogue of their eyes. Stalemate. Standoff.

Then something in Haji's expression shifts. Not surrender, exactly, but a softening.

"Saya," he begins. "I—"

Above, the seatbelt sign comes on. The pilot announces that they are beginning their descent to the Roissy Airport.

 _Paris_.

* * *

 

L'église de la Madeleine,

75008 Paris, France

Saya's memory of Paris is bittersweet-verging-on-bitter.

She remembers the way the rays of predawn sunlight struck the skyline, illuminating the splendid stretch of gabled roofs, spires, and domes in centuries' worth of history: Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque, Classic. She remembers the glass pyramid of the Louvre, the brooding hulk of Notre Dame, the quintessentially quaint rows of the Left Bank cafes.

And she remembers other things. The shabby flat Red Shield had rented near la Goutte d'Or. The Schiff's ambush. Irene spasming to death with screams. The shopping trip with Kai and Riku. The attack on Red Shield's ship—the one that had cost Joel his legs. Cost them their headquarters, cost Riku his life, and the lives of countless others.

That day, something had shattered their world, a percussive storm that shook its very foundations. And in a spiraling rush, they were swept apart, their minds and bodies scarred and changed in the aftermath.

 _But still alive,_  she thinks.

_Scarred, changed—we're still here._

That was why they'd fought so hard. That was why Joel, even robbed of his mobility, never gave up on the Mission.

They drive down together in Red Shield's town car. Saya sits between Yuri and Yumi in the enclosed silence of the backseat. Headache throbs in her brainstem; she drags in deep lungfuls of air through the half-rolled windows.

It is a damp, cool morning. Last night had wrung out rainfall: the sky is blanketed in gray-edged clouds, the sun barely visible. The city seems to hang suspended between dreams.

Awkwardly, Saya shifts in her seat. She has borrowed one of Yuri's outfits for the ceremony—a Mary Quant-style shift, with seamed stockings and pointed-toe heels. She hates the ensemble: too modish, too starched. But at least it is in black.

"Thank you," she whispers to Yuri. "I should've gotten something from a store. But the idea of shopping…"

"Don't worry about it." Yuri squeezes her hand. "At times like this, the little details always trip you up."

"I dunno why it matters," Yumi says. "I'm sure Joel-san saw her in  _worse_  during the war."

"This isn't a war," Yuri says gently. "It's his farewell."

Yumi frowns in belated understanding.

The service is held at the church of La Madeleine. Through the car window, the tall building makes a doleful ascent into view. Neo-Classically splendid with Corinthian columns, it nonetheless shows in daylight the erosion of decades, its grand design crumbling into ruin.

The rest of the mourners have already arrived. Clumps of darkly-clothed men and women make their way slowly up the stairs. Joel's family and friends—and their security details. Joel was a shrewd networker: his social circle ran the gamut from businessmen, civil servants and war-heroes, to politicians, intelligence agents and arms dealers. Each person peripherally involved in Red Shield's day-to-day operations, kept in the loop about the Chiropteran threat.

 _What will happen without him?_  Saya wonders.  _Will they keep supporting Red Shield?_

The expedient self-absorption makes her cringe. Sometimes she thinks there were advantages to simply being a monster-slayer for an organization. It kept your thoughts on matters not to do with the organization at all.

Once they are parked, Haji hands her out, courteous as a chauffeur. As soon as she's on her feet, Saya retracts her hand with the same formality.

After their talk on the plane, she doesn't want to touch him. Yet the subdued concern in his face takes the edge off her anger. Whatever their differences, he is always soldier-on-his-post steady when it comes to her well-being. Always keeping his priorities on the straight-and-narrow.

On her.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

"Mmm."

"David says we will convene at  _Les Ambassadeurs_  afterward. To discuss the teams' findings in Okinawa. And the results of the blood sample."

"I see."

He hesitates. "Are you certain you are fine? You seem very pale."

"Headache."

"Would you prefer to—"

"I'm okay." She squares her shoulders. "Let's go."

Inside, the church is jam-packed. Joel's mahogany casket is unadorned except for elegant wreaths of lilies. Next to it is a large framed photo. Joel in his last years: dignified and handsome, the sideburns silvered but the hair still full and dark. His blue eyes seem to twinkle into Saya's.

Wincing, Saya looks away. She feels her own smallness in the high-ceilinged church. The rosette motifs and wafts of incense from the thuribles stir up half-buried memories of another funeral, after the Bordeaux Sunday.

It was just her and Haji then. Yet the atmosphere is uncannily alike. She looks around at the faces of the mourners, but because of the gloom, and the starkness of the wide-spaced chandeliers, all she can see is a black-washed mass with glints of eyes. It is eerie.

Then Haji's hand covers hers. Their fingers fold together. He squeezes gently, and something inside Saya teeters between winter and the first green peep of spring.

Inhaling, she finds the strength to look ahead.

The memorial service is deeply unreal. The Goldschmidt clan, carefully secular since Saya's days at the Zoo, have always eschewed religion. But Joel's wife is a staunch Catholic. There is a Requiem Mass, and an  _Absoute_  with incense and holy water, hymns sung and eulogies spoken, all with a sense of reluctant obligation.

At Saya's left, David mutters, "He'd hate this."

"Hate it?"

"The formality. The fuss." His face is a study of strained neutrality. "The chief always said that when his time came, we should skip the ritualizing. Give him a low-key sendoff, then focus on what matters."

"The Mission," Saya whispers.

"Yes." His eyes meet hers, their sharp gleam undimmed despite the shadows under his eyelids. "Red Shield may or may not survive the coming weeks, Saya. But our purpose remains the same. We're here to help you."

"You think there's danger brewing."

"My gut says yes."

"So does mine." She swallows. "We've survived worse. But with Joel gone, it feels like—a countdown's begun. Like there's some limit of fortitude we've reached."

"Nothing lasts forever," David says. "And nothing stays the same. Not the way we fight. Or the way we cope. Sometimes we're more resilient when touched by crisis. Other times it's like reaching a mental threshold. The end of a hard journey." Determination shades his gaze. "That just means the start of another. At every point, we're becoming stronger."

_Becoming._

A shiver passes through Saya. David's words are a bitter pill to be swallowed, but they are a good and restorative bitter. A fact of life. He doesn't have Haji's patient perception into what makes her tick—who does?—but his pragmatism always conceals beneath a well-meaning insight.

She values it, as she values his presence. One of the many anchors, like Haji, like Kai, like Julia, who keep her grounded.

"I hope we survive this new 'journey'," she says. "It will be hard without Joel."

"But impossible without you," David says, and the corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile.

Saya offers a wan smile in return. It is the closest all that day she comes to weeping.

After the service, there is a slow procession of cars to Père Lachaise Cemetery. The place is airy and tranquil, weak sunlight ghosting off the trees. The grave is waiting, a rectangular hole in the grass, the tombstone perfectly-etched with a simple epitaph.

__ Goldschmidt VI_

_His works were fortitude, his deeds were love._

Yumi and Yuri, flanking Saya, squeeze her shoulders as the priest begins the Rite of Committal. Joel's widow and three children stand off to the side. Saya remembers their names from the phonecall with Joel. Franz, the eldest, a replica of Joel but with sunken eyes and stubbled cheeks. Emile and Alice, Joel's two daughters, pretty as water-paintings. And Célia, Joel's wife—attractively patrician and absolutely devasted.

She sobs all through the priest's verses of scripture, breathing with hitching gasps into her handkerchief. When they lower the coffin into the earth, she breaks into a wail, and the sound of it echoes off the treetops and grave-markers. Franz and her daughters shush her, but nothing helps. Her grief is inconsolable.

Not grief.

 _Rage_.

"Twenty-five years!" she shrieks, cutting off the priest. "Twenty-five years of happiness, and he threw it away for a life of  _Hell_."

"Madame," the priest winces. "Please—"

She breaks away from her children, sinking to her knees at the gravesite. "Twenty-five years and I'm left with  _nothing_ of him!"

"Maman—" Franz hurries forward, grabbing her shoulders. "Please don't do this!"

"There's nothing left! They took everything! His entire life! All those  _monsters_  claiming to fight monsters in turn!"

"Maman,  _no_ —!"

She jerks off her son's hands. Her eyes dart around, the whites showing like a spooked animal's. Then they alight on Saya, and the misery spasms into wrath. " _You_!"

She rises clumsily, warding off Franz's attempts, and flings herself at Saya. Haji and David catch at her simultaneously. Around them, the mourners whisper and stare.

"You began this!" Célia snarls. "You're the reason it all started! He always put you on a damned pedestal! Jeanne d'Arc with a bloodstained sword!"

"Please, that's  _enough_!" Franz encircles her waist. "You promised you wouldn't make a scene. Think of what father would say—"

"It's thanks to  _her_  that he can say nothing at all!" Her mouth curdles, eyes blazing into Saya's. "It's all because of  _you_! Always the Mission! Always Red Shield! It consumed his entire life! There was room for nothing else!"

"Madame—" Saya's heart races. Her face is hot with shame.

"So many men hollowed out in your service," Célia sobs. "So many fighters fallen for your cause. Yet you've saved more than you've killed. That's the worst of all! I must be thankful to my husband's own  _murderer_!"

" _Mama_!"

"I'm sorry," Saya whispers. "I didn't mean to cause you harm—"

"You  _have_  harmed me." Fury pours off Célia and into the washed-out cemetery. "You have hurt my family. My children and my husband. Even if he never breathed a word of complaint, your actions have always harmed him."

Saya opens her mouth, then closes it. In the face of the other woman's despair, there is nothing she can say.

"Please, Mama." Franz draws her back. Emile and Alice come forward, taking her by either arm, murmuring soothingly as they guide her away. Celia's shoulders shake, her rage burnt out and leaving her collapsed into sobs. If not for her daughters propping her up, she'd fall to the ground.

The priest hurriedly finishes the prayers. The rite concludes with those gathered reciting the  _Notre Père._ Saya mouths the words by rote. Her heart buzzes and her skin burns: sorrow shot through with remorse. Maybe it was wrong of her to come here? Wrong to intrude on the privacy of Joel's family, her very presence stirring up decades of disaster.

Célia's accusations... she knows them too well. Joel, Riku, George, Elizaveta, Miss Clara, hundreds of others—they would all be alive, except for the truth of them.

Then Yumi butts up against her, gently supportive without words. On her other side, Yuri passes an arm around her, squeezing tight. Swallowing, Saya glances from one girl to the other, showing gratitude with just her eyes.

Her nieces... they wouldn't exist either, but for the fact of the war.

When the ceremony is over, the mourners disperse. Two graveyard workers with a backhoe begin filling in the grave, large clods of dirt landing with hollow thuds. As Saya and her family start to leave, she takes one last look at the grave. Célia stands there, clinging to both her daughters. Their weeping is different now, the mutual consolement between parent and child. Franz stands a few feet off, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.

When he spots Saya, he hesitates, then starts over to her.

She stiffens, expecting another outburst. But when the young man draws near, his tear-streaked face shows chagrin.

"Miss Otonashi," he says, clasping her hands. "Thank you for coming all this way. I hope you can forgive that display—"

Saya shakes her head. "Your mother has every right to—"

"No. We are all fighters in the Mission. But you are foremost. For her to insult you that way—" His young face droops. But he holds his shoulders high. "Please understand. My mother loved my father very much. Worshiped him, really. But she was not a Shield. She and father had problems because she could never make peace with his dedication to the Mission. She would become jealous. Frightened. It was always a point of conflict between them." Quieter, "It's not the sort of life I want for myself."

The message sinks in, whether he intends it to or not.

Saya winces inwardly. A cool wind gusts through the cemetery, slinking along the hem of her dress and curling down her collar. The air is moist with impending rain.

Franz unclasps her hands. Digging into his suit jacket, he lifts out a familiar pocket-watch. The feeble sunlight strikes dull gold splotches off its surface.

"My father's," Franz says. "And his father's before him. The heirloom passed down from generation to generation, alongside the mantel of Joel."

Saya stares at the watch. The rustling of the trees, the indistinct murmur of voices, the twittering of birds, all narrow down to just the soft patina of its surface.

Taking her hand, Franz gently drops the watch into her palm.

"Please," he says. "Pass this on to the next man brave enough to fill my father's shoes."

"Not to you?"

He shakes his head. "Father did his best to keep Red Shield strong. But it was his private life that suffered for it. I never held it against him—he was always good to me. He taught me a great deal. But I cannot use his lessons for warfare. I have no stomach for it." He glances toward the gravesite, where his mother and sisters are huddled. "I can, however, use those lessons to take care of my family."

"Monsieur…"

He backs away, shaking his head. "We all have our duty, Miss Otonashi. This is mine. I hope you will understand." Quietly, "We must learn from the past. Do our part, and do it better."

The words aren't a nod to conventionality, but a reaffirmation of purpose.

His, but also hers.

They say their goodbyes. Franz returns to his mother and sisters. They embrace him, sobbing. A family broken apart by grief—yet still together where it counts.

In her hand, Joel's timepiece is cool and heavy. Her crimes and Diva's seem to mass themselves in its weight, and she can find no sense in them. They are awful, and brutal, and meaningless—a natural disaster too inscrutable to fathom.

A reminder to do better.

The first raindrop brings her back to the moment. A fat droplet bounces off her nose. It is followed by a another, then another. And then the preliminary pitterpatter gives way to downpour, like a soup-pot upended. Everyone in the cemetery is instantly drenched.

Shoving the watch into her handbag, Saya takes off toward the gates. Haji is waiting there. The intent grimness of his face is unreadable. But beneath are all the contradictions that make him hers: wariness, concern, stubbornness, patience. A landmark lost and then found again.

On impulse, Saya catches his hand. He curls their fingers together, squeezing the way he'd done in the church. It is her one consolation of the day. Not a glass half-full, but a fragile lure of hope to cling to.

Like Joel's timepiece.

Like the weight of the vial in her pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saya's weirdass dream is based at least in part on Tuli Azzameen's "The Other Self." Give her stuff (Blood+ and Star Wars) a read if you're so inclined. I promise you'll be in for a treat.


End file.
